I once believed in the sanctity of preparation. I thought that if I studied the light long enough, if I honed my craft until my hands were steady and my breath was quiet, the world would eventually hold its breath in return. I expected the moment to arrive and stay, like a guest who knew I had cleaned the house.

The forest corrected me, time and again, through its winged sages—from the kingfisher’s plunge to the owl’s silent vigil.

The bird was never waiting for my shutter to click. The tiger was never posing for my courage. Life was never pausing to check if I had found my footing. Consider the Kingfisher, that iridescent arrow over still waters. It dives without hesitation, a master of patience fused with precision. It waits motionless, then embraces the unknown depths, acting only because the current demands it. It does not linger for applause.

I arrived when the road allowed it. That jagged gap between its flight and my arrival is not a cruelty of the universe. It is simply the pulse of reality, urging us to act without waiting for permission or perfection.

I have spent hours tracking predators in the wilderness, not chasing, but observing. The Falcon, soaring with unmatched vision, embodies a focus that elevates it above distraction. It cuts through the air like prana in motion—unattached, purposeful, conquering illusions without a backward glance. These creatures do not circle the canopy for my benefit, nor do they repeat a majestic glide because the golden hour passed me by. They fly because flight is the only honest response to being alive. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Even the Crow, clever and adaptive, offers a lesson in the sacred ordinary. It turns scraps into survival, a messenger between realms, balancing cunning with resourcefulness. It transforms the mundane into the spiritual without a single complaint. Nature does not cooperate with ambition; it only responds to alignment.

Predators possess a grace humans spend lifetimes trying to mimic: the ability to act with absolute precision and then surrender the result instantly. The Hornbill, with its casque and lifelong bonds, teaches fidelity and harmony. It nurtures its connections within the wild’s rhythm, acting decisively, then releasing the outcome. If the hunt fails, they do not carry the rot of shame. If it succeeds, they do not carry the weight of pride. No internal monologue follows the strike. There is only the next breath. Only the next shift in the wind. Keep trying till alive—that relentless mantra, stripped of excuses, adapting through setbacks until life’s thread finally unwinds.

We, however, are a species of “Wait.” Wait until I’m confident. Wait until the wounds have closed. Wait until I understand the map. But life is a rude host. It arrives unannounced, stays for a heartbeat, and never repeats its performance.

And then there is the Owl, my love symbol and my hero. The night’s guardian, piercing the darkness with intuition. It thrives in solitude, a vahana to the divine, guiding the quest for the self beyond the five senses. These birds—from kingfisher to falcon, crow to hornbill, and the owl—have taught me the spiritual lifestyle of the wilderness: living in presence, adapting without attachment, and persisting in harmony with Sanatana Dharma’s eternal flow.

At fifty, this truth has finally stopped feeling like a bruise and started feeling like a gift. No matter how skilled I am at explaining, teaching, or preparing, the seed of wisdom requires more than just my effort; it requires fertile soil.

எவ்வளவு தான் எண்ணெய் தடவிட்டு புரண்டாலும் ஒட்டுற மண் தான் ஒட்டும்.

The bird does not lower its branch to be seen. The sky does not rearrange its clouds for your clarity. You either look up while the wings are spread, or you inhabit the empty space they left behind.

That day in the forest, my memory card remained empty. But I carried home a heavier, better thing: the understanding that life is not unfair—it is simply uninterested in my schedule.

Do your work. Give your best. And then, let the forest be the forest.

The bird was never waiting for me. And strangely, once I stopped expecting it to, I finally felt light enough to fly.