The Raven and the Owl: A Lesson I Didn't Want to Hear

The other morning, I was awakened by a murder of ravens—yes, that’s actually what a group of ravens is called. And that name seemed appropriate in the moment.

There were 20… maybe 30 of them, shrieking and swooping through our front yard, their energy loud and chaotic enough to pull me out of sleep.

As I looked closer, my husband and I realized what was happening.

They were circling a large owl perched high in one of our pine trees.

My heart sank.

I love owls. There is something about them—their quiet presence, their wisdom, their stillness. They feel sacred to me.

And then, from a nearby tree, I heard another owl call back.

In my mind, they were communicating… strategizing… trying to find a way out.

The contrast was striking—the gentle, rhythmic coo of the owls against the sharp, aggressive cries of the ravens. It felt unsettling, almost personal. And of course, I took sides. I found myself yelling up at the ravens, as if I could intervene, as if I should.

And then my husband said something simple, but grounding:

“It’s nature, Bronwyn… let it unfold.”

I didn’t like that answer. Everything in me wanted to step in, to protect, to control the outcome—to save my owl. But his words stayed with me.

As I moved through the day, I kept coming back to that moment and his words. It wasn’t just about birds; it was about something much bigger. So I paused and pondered on my nature walk, where wisdom always comes. How often do we see something unfolding in our lives, in others’ lives, in the world—and immediately feel the need to fix it, change it, or protect against it?

We resist what feels uncomfortable.

We try to override the natural course of things.

We insert ourselves where perhaps we are not meant to.

But what if…

There is an intelligence at work that we don’t fully understand.

Nature, when left undisturbed, has a remarkable way of finding balance. Ecosystems self-regulate, and cycles are complete. What appears chaotic in the moment often serves a larger equilibrium over time. And yet, as humans, we often struggle to trust that.

We want resolution and control.

We want things to unfold according to our sense of what is right. And then I learned something that stopped me. Owls and ravens are not innocent players in a simple story of good versus bad. They are natural enemies. Owls will take over nests and prey on raven eggs, and ravens will fiercely defend and retaliate when they sense that threat.

What I witnessed that morning wasn’t cruelty; it was nature in relationship. In balance. In truth.

And it made me pause.

Because I had immediately assigned roles—protector and villain, right and wrong—based entirely on my own preferences and emotional attachment.

How often do we do that in our own lives?

In our relationships, in our work, and in the way we interpret what’s happening around us.

The truth is rarely as simple as we want it to be.

This is something many spiritual teachings point to in these moments. Not a passive “giving up,” but a deeper allowing and understanding. That requires a willingness to stay present, even when it’s hard, and to witness without immediately reacting. To trust the unfolding, even when we don’t understand it.

This is the shift from automatic reaction to conscious choice.

From control… to trust. From interference… to alignment.

And then there is the owl. A symbol that feels especially meaningful in this moment.

The owl represents wisdom, intuition, and the ability to see what is not immediately visible. It reminds us to trust our inner knowing, even in the dark. It is also a guide through transition and change—moving quietly, gracefully through the unknown. The owl teaches us to look beyond the surface, to find clarity within confusion, and to trust that even in uncertainty, there is deeper intelligence at work.

So perhaps the lesson isn’t to do nothing. But to discern where we are meant to act… and where we are meant to allow.

To recognize when our urge to intervene comes from fear or discomfort rather than truth. To trust that not everything is ours to fix.

That morning, I didn’t save the owl (but it did survive, I knew as I saw it land softly that evening on a tree in our backyard, waiting to start its nightly hunt), but I did receive something else, a quiet reminder that life is constantly unfolding through moments we understand, and many we don’t.

And the real question becomes:

Can we trust it?

With heart,