This spellwork requires pigeon feathers. The city where I live is full of them, they build nest next to nest on the tree right outside my bedroom window. Sometimes they wake me up in the morning, sometimes it´s my alarm what does the waking. And they do complain as well.
When I walk around the neighborhood I always scan the ground for their feathers. They are fairly easy to find. Every now and then I´m lucky and find feathers from other species, my favorite ones being Carancho´s (Caracara plancus) or Chimango´s (Milvago chimango). Sometimes I find dead birds. Sometimes I even stumble upon feathers belonging to birds from a Macumba (an offering or a Trabajo (spellwork) generally made of dead animals, red candles, popcorn, alcoholic beverages, tobacco and tons of red paper) from the local magical tradition called Umbanda. I do not pick those out of respect, although I know that eventually I´ll end up doing some experiments as well. This curious mind of mine that loves to mix and intertwine.
But back to the objects: How to carry a message if not by using a messenger´s feather? I write down whatever I feel like pigeon posting on my notebook/grimoire and then tear it, so I end up with a thin strip of paper. Using a cable tie —my all time favorite binding tool— I strap it to a small branch together with one of the collected feathers. Now it´s all ready to fly and go up the Tree carrying these humble scribblings, a letter to the skies.
Down on earth there are stops, spots, places in the city where the perched messages wait for the right moment. Places I like, I love and carefully choose. I leave the objects there with the sweet sadness born out of the understanding that we just need to let go. I utter a prayer of sorts: “Do fly away, let chance, death and rain and falcons take you. Go since you are homesick, and long to be undone and awakened”. Then intersubjective reality speeds back up and I keep on living. The day after they may still be there if no storm claimed their integrity overnight. But if they are gone, really gone and nowhere around to be found, I then close my eyes and in silence imagine a shadow self, a similar soul walking my footsteps and picking it up.