Have you ever encountered a red-tailed hawk perched high in a tree?

Find some binoculars next time you spot one, focus in, and take a good close look. The bird may appear to be resting but, depending upon the time of day and the circumstances, chances are it is doing exactly what it was made to do: engaging in the hunt.

You’ll notice the hawk isn’t flying. It might even be said to be sitting on the bench like Lin. In fact, it barely even seems to be moving, except for the occasional flutter and sweep of its head as it scans the terrain below. The same hunting tactic of patient, minimal movement is employed in a slightly different manner by peregrines and other falcon species, gliding in a high soar a couple of thousand feet or more in the air while scanning both the terrain and the sky below them for potential ground or aerial game.

Learning to wait for the right opportunity to strike is one of the hallmarks of a successful natural hunter. In falconry, peregrines and other falcons are taught to “wait on” in the sky high above the falconer, patiently waiting while the falconer works to flush the bird’s quarry.

“Timing is everything,” as the old saying goes. Ask Jeremy Lin. Ask the hawk.

I think of another lesson from my old playing days. My college coach used to always preach: “Let the game to come to you, Andy. Don’t force it.” It took a long time, until I was out of college, before I truly understood the wisdom of his words. When an athlete is “in the zone,” as sports commentators like to say, they mean he or she is playing to the top of their abilities. But it goes beyond just that. For anyone who has ever experienced being “in the zone” it means becoming one with the ebb and flow of the action, “seeing the court,” “seeing the field,” much in the same way the hunting hawk or falcon naturally sees.

Unfortunately, this idea has become counter-cultural, because we now live in a world that deifies instant gratification. We don’t like to have to wait anymore. Even in Lin’s case, look at how the media is suddenly fawning all over him. An instant hero. “Linsanity.” “Lin’s Legend.” I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines. As Lin himself humbly put it, referring to all the fuss: “It’s only been a week.”

Maybe it’s a lesson we all need to take to heart. When you really stop to think about it, for the person with a success-oriented mindset, is there ever really such a thing as being relegated to a backup role? Jeremy Lin’s example proves, as does the spirit of the waiting hawk, that the difference between success and failure is simply patience and the ability to seize the opportunity when the timing is right. And perhaps no one this past week can better appreciate than Lin, an ardent Christian who makes no secret about his faith, the famous passage from Isaiah 40:31.

“But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”

Wait upon the Lord. Life, work, school—they can all have their ups and downs. Don’t lose heart while sitting on the bench. Stay in the hunt. Sooner or later, opportunities will come your way.

The trick is understanding when and how to move.

More Like This

1. Brave Heart Down
2. Not a Tame Falcon
3. The Hawk Sees
4. A Good Perch is Hard to Find
5. The Hawk Waits: So Did Jeremy Lin

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Every now and then someone asks me how I like keeping a hawk or falcon as a pet. I appreciate the sentiment. Pets are popular, and with good reason. They can be loyal. They provide comfort and companionship, even love for many of us. The dictionary defines a pet as “any domesticated or tamed animal that is kept as a companion and cared for affectionately.”

I care for my hawk. We develop a close bond. Some might even call it love. But falconers are not pet-keepers. A falconry bird is not a toy or a pastime, or even a constant companion, and the bond I form with my hawk looks entirely different from the bond I form, say, with my pet dogs.

In the wild, birds of prey hunt to survive. The falcon kills, not for pleasure, but to eat. The kill doesn’t stem from avarice or malice. The bird doesn’t exploit a natural resource on some mercurial whim. Falconry has been defined as the taking of wild game with a bird of prey. Falconry is a hunting sport because it seeks to protect the wild nature of a hawk while working to preserve the species.

The successful falconer earns the trust of his or her bird, helping to further develop the hawk’s natural capabilities. Like working with a boxer facing the element of danger in the ring, the falconer walks the razor’s edge of regularly allowing a captive bird to fly free and hunt. The hawk may just decide to fly away. Or worse—in the wild death can sometimes come as suddenly and unexpectedly to the predator as it does to the prey. The magic and allure of falconry rests on this precarious balance. Every time the falconer allows a bird to slip free of the glove, he or she understands it might be the last.

Why do we do it? Why do falconers accept such a risk, especially when they devote so much time, energy, and even obsession to their birds?

For me, the answer is simple. Because the wild spirit of a falcon or a hawk is precious beyond words. Something no one can ever truly possess. Even the hawk herself seems only its temporary vessel. She is not a tame falcon.

Maybe all of us can learn a lesson from the hawk and the falconer.

Are we to be merely pets in this life? Kept dependent and well fed by our keepers, whatever and whomever they may be? Or are we, like the hawk, created for something greater—reaching out to a higher, wilder power, that calls us to our better selves?

We all want the hawk has: freedom. But freedom is not coercion in the guise of protection from some outside force, be it a company, government, or religion—being bound, as it were, to the falconer’s glove. Nor is freedom to be found in a politician’s promises, a good pension, and a long, fat life. True freedom comes only from inspired self-control.

Will the choices you make this day lead you plodding onward, accepting safety and mediocrity as your fate? Or will they lead you, tethered only by faith, somewhere into the wild?

Knowing the buoyant release of uncertainty. Braving the cold wind.

Believing you’d rather die really learning to live than fading into the ashen emptiness of the absence of flight.

More Like This

1. Brave Heart Down
2. Not a Tame Falcon
3. The Hawk Sees
4. A Good Perch is Hard to Find
5. The Hawk Waits: So Did Jeremy Lin

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For a limited time Andy Straka is offering autographed copies of his newest thriller, Blue Hallelujah! Order your copy
below.

Top Ten Current Bestsellers on the NOOK for Detective Fiction.

1 Girl With the Dragan Tattoo by Steig Larsson
2 The First Rule of Ten by Gay Hendricks
3 What It Was by George Pelecanos
4 In a Nutshell by Janet Evanovich
5 Red Mist by Patricia Cornwell
6 Angle of Investigation by Michael Connelly 
7 A Cold Day for Murder by Dana Stabenow 
8 A Witness Above by Andy Straka ****
9 The Rope by Nevada Barr
10 D.C. Dead by Stuart Woods

Act fast, 30 days only! Andy is giving away a personally autographed copy of his latest release, The Blue Hallelujah! This suspense thriller will glue you to your beach chair! Enter the sweepstakes by entering your email below.

For this giveaway, we are using a double opt-in email subscriber; so, you will have to confirm your email to complete your entry.

Have you ever been so engrossed in a project that it’s hard to see the forest for the trees? Maybe you’re overwhelmed with responsibilities at work or with children on the home front.

A writer’s life can be like that sometimes. Somewhere near the middle of a book, no matter how good the outline, the task can suddenly appear overwhelming, even impossible.

I feel like I’ve become mired at such a stage these past couple of weeks as I slowly push a number of writing/publishing projects forward. Am I trying to do too much? Too little? Am I even doing the right things? These are the kind of questions we all begin to ask ourselves sometimes.

Humans have something in common with hawks and other raptors. Our eyes are our dominant sensory organs. Like humans, hawks possess binocular vision, so that the visual fields of each eye overlap. But a hawk’s eyes are much larger in proportion to its head than ours. The hawk’s eyes also have a much longer focal length, a large pupil and curved cornea, which gives the bird much higher visual acuity, or the ability to distinguish fine detail at a distance. Each eye acts in similar fashion to a telescope.

When hunting, my Harris hawk and I work as partners. He follows along from tree to tree above me while I—and whoever else might occasionally be with me, dogs, etc.—attempt to flush game for the hawk to chase. Deep into winter, as more rodents and rabbits go to ground, the hunt becomes more challenging. As the brush grows thick and the tall, dry grass obscures my view, I’ve learned to pay close attention to where the hawk is looking at any particular moment and begin to follow his cues. Why? Because the hawk sees. The hawk’s vision, when it comes to spotting our objective, his next meal, is vastly superior to mine.

The larger lesson for me in all this is that when I find myself bogged down with details in any project, especially when it comes to my writing, I need to find a way to return to my original vision for the project to begin to “see” my way through the woods.

After seven books, at least I recognize the experience, and know I will eventually push through, but it doesn’t make the process any easier. Vision drives everything: where I’ve been, where I’m going, and where I hope to be.

What has you bogged down today? What obstacles are you facing? How is your “visual acuity?” Maybe you, too, need to find a way to refocus, to return to your original vision in order to see the way ahead.

More Like This

1. Brave Heart Down
2. Not a Tame Falcon
3. The Hawk Sees
4. A Good Perch is Hard to Find
5. The Hawk Waits: So Did Jeremy Lin

Featured Book

While not a Christmas-themed tale, I hope my latest thriller, The Blue Hallelujah, becomes a special book in your library or in that of someone you love. A departure from my well-known Frank Pavlicek mystery series, it’s the story of an elderly, dying detective, his long dead wife, and their granddaughter who goes missing.

The word hallelujah stems, of course, from the Old Testament in the Bible, where it is used mostly in the Book of Psalms. It means literally “Praise God,” from the Hebrew word hallel, which is a joyous praise in song, and the shortened form of “jah” or Yah”, to signify the Old Testament name for the creator YHWH.

But not everyone can praise the same way, especially those whose call to duty includes daily confrontation with the darkest side of humanity.

Focusing on an aged detective as the lead character for a fast-paced crime thriller may seem like an odd choice. But The Blue Hallelujah was a story I knew I had to write. Choosing such a protagonist makes for drama that goes beyond pure suspense, deep into memory and old secrets, even touching the supernatural.

Many people reach out to the elderly at Christmas, whether it be relatives or others in their neighborhood or communities, but you don’t have to be old to enjoy this book. The Blue Hallelujah is both a novel of suspense and a love story. It’s about a love that endures for the ages.

How far would you go to rescue your grandchild and redeem your long dead spouse?

Detective Jerry Strickland and his wife Rebecca shared a secret calling. When Rebecca died of cancer in prison—branded as a disturbed vigilante after killing one of his murder suspects—Jerry knew he needed to put the truth in writing to set the record straight.

Now, as an old man nearing his own demise, Jerry is unsure whether to share his narrative about Rebecca with the world. But when his eight-year-old granddaughter Marnee disappears, Jerry learns she’s been taken by someone close to the killer depicted in the pages hidden in his dresser drawer.

It’s time for Jerry to finish the story—by confronting an evil that threatens Marnee’s life and the lives of everyone around her. And by placing his faith in a higher power to redeem the love for Rebecca in his heart.

—-Free, for your reading pleasure, especially for writers. Maybe a glimpse of the near future. A story about ebooks and the ghost of publishing past. —-

I half expected the old man in the green eyeshade not to show. But when I stepped off the elevator on the twenty-fourth floor of the Acme Legacy Publishing building in New York a few minutes after midnight, there he was.

In his corner office with his shirtsleeves rolled up, nursing bloodshot eyes. The nub of a cigar protruding from the side of his mouth like a bad memory. On the ink-stained blotter behind him, a half empty bottle of Scotch flanked the empty glass in his hand.

There was something lonely, even heartbreaking about him, I decided. I wasn’t sure why I’d come. He regarded me with a cagey stare, even in his weakness. He was an industry icon. He was still chained to his desk.

“You’re late,” he said.

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know what I expected, exactly. I guess I thought you’d be . . . with everything going on . . . a little more on top of things.”

“Well, I’m not. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappointed?” That brought a guffaw out of him.

“I’m just a writer.”

“Just a writer, huh?” He twisted his lower lip, adjusting the angle of the cigar.

“What are you doing here at this hour, anyway?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he said.

“You invited me. Remember?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.” He turned and looked at the stack ofmanuscripts piled in his corner, before looking back. “But you’re the only one who accepted the invitation, my friend. Everybody else just wanted to do it by email.”

I couldn’t think of any response to that, so I kept quiet.

“You want a drink?” he asked.

“Why not?”

“Here. Pull up a chair.” He beckoned toward the one empty chair in his office and reached for the bottle of Scotch. He produced another tumbler like his from somewhere, filling both glasses while I sat down. “Cheers.” He handed mine across to me.

“Cheers.”

The Scotch tasted good. We regarded one another for a moment.

“You’re some kind of spirit, aren’t you.”

“You might say that,” he said.

“I figured as much . . . when I got the message, I mean.”He took another long pull on his drink before rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

“I think I do.”

“There’s no use sugarcoating it. We’re going to have to let you go. We aren’t offering you any more contracts on your books.”

“I know.” I took another sip of the Scotch. For ghost Scotch, it really did taste good.

“Of course you do,” he said. “You’ve been out there like everybody else, as soon as you could find an opening in your contracts or write something else, publishing for yourselves on those infernal electronic gadgets. Going straight to your readers.”

“Apparently, I have some.”

He paused for a moment. “You.” He smiled, pointing a bony finger at me that looked for all the world like Robert De Niro smiling and pointing at Billy Crystal in Analyze This. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“Not yet.”

He laughed, but his countenance suddenly darkened. “They’re all dead now.”

“Dead? Who?”

“The real, old-fashioned writers. They’re all dead, or worse, gone over to the dark side like you.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose that’s true.”

“We had them all back in the day. All the great ones. You could go downstairs and smell the ink flying off the presses before the books were sent to the bindery, just as the writers could smell the ink on the typewriters. It was magical, I tell you. That’s what it was.”

I nodded, not wishing to puncture his dream.

“Huxley had it right, you know.” He picked up a sheaf of papers from in front of him, snapping the sheets together against his desk like they were precious gems. “It’s all become a brave new world now. We’re going to need a lot of brave new writers.”

“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

“You plan to be one, kid? You plan to be a brave new writer?”

“I guess I am already.”

He smiled. “Well, I guess you are . . . one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“You won’t have me to kick around anymore. You won’t have me to blame for your rejections or your editing issues or your lack of marketing or whatever else. It’s all on you now. It’s all on you.”

“I get it.”

“You’ll have to do everything. Everything, you understand? From the copyediting to the book jacket, layout, publicity, tours . . . You not only have to write, but you have to figure it all out and make it work, and hope that they sell. Why you’ve practically got to become a damn superhero.”

“Well, I don’t quite think that—”

“Do you even know what you’re up against?”

“I hope so.”

He turned in his chair and looked out the window at the sparkling late night jewel that was midtown Manhattan. “It’s too dark out there for superheroes, kid.”

“I guess we’ll see.”

“But I sure could’ve used you, back in the day.”

“Wish I could have been there.”

He smiled once again at something, maybe the memories. “We could’ve told some good stories, couldn’t we?”

“You bet.”

“That’s all it’s really ever been about, hasn’t it? The stories, I mean.”

“Pretty much.”

“Kind of sad when you think about it though, isn’t it, kid? Sweet for you, I mean. Sad for me.”

“Sad and sweet for all of us.”

“Maybe,” he said. “You’re the poet, kid.”

“But that’s not the worst part of it,” I said.

“Oh, yeah?” He arched an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“I’ve got a feeling the party’s just begun.”

He glared at me for a long moment. Then he leaned his head back and howled, a laugh so loud it startled me into a new awareness as both he and the glass in my hand dissolved into bright particles.

Coming fully awake, I found myself staring into my computer screen. 2014? 1984?

I looked around the room to make sure I was back in my own office. I was indeed. Turning to look at my bookcase as the personal book-sales-per-minute counter on the laptop in front of me bleeped another dozen downloads.

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