Ride The Wave & Fly With Eagles; My Friend. Ride the Wave & Fly With Eagles!

***Ride The Wave & Fly With Eagles; My Friend.
Ride the Wave & Fly With Eagles!***
-Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
(#StorytellingSalemStory #999,984 out of 1mil:)

🎶So I’ve been travelling across the country—
Town to town,
City to city,
State to state;
Sitting down in random locations—
Across the nation— with a whiteboard in my haaaaand-
I’ve been asking peopleee:

“What’s,
Yor,
Story?”🎶

But this time, I wasn’t on familiar soil.
Foreign Land: I was in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan!
Sitting under a wide tree in the old part of the city near the bazaar, an eagle was flying high- while the air smelled of grilled lamb, dust, and fresh apricots.
Vendors shouted prices with their whole lungs; as distant traffic murmured like a restless river in the background.

A woman in her seventies, small frame with sharp eyes, long skirt, leather on her arm, jacket too warm for the day, and a headscarf patterned with tiny birds; paused as she passed on by. She squinted at the board- then sat next to me like it was her bench all along.

When she spoke, her English was broken but clear, her Kyrgyz accent thick—clipped at the ends, vowels rounded like river stones, and every sentence weighed like it had walked a loooooong way to get heereee.

⸻

“Ah.. Story?

I give one. But no laughing, eh?

When I was girl—maybe… twelve?—I want to be eagle hunter.
Not girl thing, you understand. Boys do it. Men.

But my grandfather—he have eagle. Big one. Female. Shyrdak, we name her. She scream like god angry. Never failed to catch dinner. 100% success rate each time she went out.

I sneak out every morning, follow him & Shyrdak. Hide & watch in awe.

One day, he see me. He don’t yell.

He say, ‘If you brave enough to follow, then you brave enough to hold. Shyrdak has been pointing you out from the skies for weeks don’t you know.’

He put eagle on my arm. She heavy. Talons sharp- looked me in the eyes- smelling my fear- as my grandpa stared her down; telling her ‘dontchyou dare’ with his body language being near.
I shake, but I do not drop her.
I could feel her grip around my arm, like she was checking how brittle and small my twelve-year-old- muscles & bones were.

Next week, he teach me.
Quiet.
No one else know.
I learn how to hold and launch Eagle three-quarters my size off my arm.
Watch her fly up high- & then circle- like she owns the skies.
Then come down like missile to regrab my arm with her talons; almost always ripping them off- before:
staring me down.
Shyrdak loved to stare me down;
so my grandpa always stayed nearby.

This went on for years. It is how I remember my grandfather. He taught me to stare fear in the eyes- and show it that:
“iiiiii was not afraaiiiiiid. But rather- that iiiiiiii-
was aalsooo, heeereee, to plaayyy.”
Fear does not like competition.
& Shyrdak was not a pet.
She was my grandpa’s hunting-companion.

Even more years go by. I marry. Have sons. Life get full. Shyrdak gone.

Then six winters ago, my grandson say, ‘I want hunt with eagle grandmum.’

So I show him.

And now? Every spring, he stand where I once stood, with Shyrdak’s great-granddaughter on his arm. A little eagle I grew. And iii? I just sit nearbyyy. Smile. Eat dried fruit; & yell advice when he misses.
& when Shyrdak’s great-granddaughter starts staring at my little baba? I do my grandpa-glare- right back at her; letting her know that ‘I’m ALSOOO not afraid to playyy.’”

⸻

She gave a little grunt—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—and tapped my knee with the back of her hand, as she stood & said:

“‘Life’- ah?
She keeps changing; so try not to be afraid.
Ride the wave & fly with eagles my friend.”

Then she wandered back toward the bazaar, walking slow but certain, like someone who always finds the good apricots firstly.

🎶And iiii?
I stayed seated beneath the tree’s wide shadow,
whiteboard in my lap, still asking:
“What’s Yor Story?”
waiting for the next person to walk my waaaaaay~🎶

(#StorytellingSalemStory #999,984)