
Mom and Angel
It started a few weeks ago, this mitzvah, this gift of my life.
In the corner ledge of my porch, on a little shelf there is an angel.
Literally.
A statue of a little angel,
Holding a bird ready to fly.
She was sitting right there when I moved in.
In her lovely silence, the angel protects my front door, standing just a few feet away,
Guarding me and my spare key.
OOPS, now you know how to get into my house.
Well, welcome.
Looking out my kitchen window, I have birds-eye view of her.
Speaking of birds, one morning a few weeks ago, looking out the window, which is just a few feet away from Said Angel, I noticed a mess;
Twigs and sticks and schmutz-in-general were accumulating.
The makings of a nest?
I kept an eye out for the unknown builder.
Sure enough, eventually, a nest manifested.
Sure enough, eventually, on the nest, a bird manifested.
A mourning dove.
There she sat,
Tucked between
The angel and the corner of the porch.
Ms. Google was helpful.
I always thought they were morning doves, as in the a.m. hours, a time in which I imagined they were most active.
Nope.
Upon investigation, Ms. Google told me my new neighbor was a mourning dove, due to her cooing, mournful sound.
She had built a nest, behind the angel.
And there she sat.
Tail mostly raised at a right-angle, I became fascinated by her dogged presence.
Focused,
Committed,
Connected,
There she sat.
Nothing to do
And
Nowhere to go,
She sat,
Allowing life
To manifest
Through her.
She became a mirror; there I was, in my full Me-ness, watching emotionally, with sporadic and random data-gathering.
I cannot tell you how long she sat,
But sit, she did.
I watched her
Almost-every-move.
Pandemic time is distorted;
Was it a week or two?
She sat for a while,
Days passing.
Entering and leaving the house, I offered her one silent mantra:
I will never hurt you.
Never.
Usually, just one round was needed
To get me into the house.
Sometimes with packages
Grasping them oh so quietly,
I hoped,
A second round was needed.
I will never hurt you.
Never.
My life-bearing neighbor was only a few feet from my front door.
I never saw the eggs,
Or
The miraculous transition
From shell to life.
After some time—a week? Two?
Little blobs of feathered life emerged,
Merged into
Their mom’s feathery body.
Undefined,
Unformed.
And I watched.
She would leave the nest.
For food, I imagined.
I would worry.
What if something happened to her?
What would become of
Her family?
The babies got bigger
How perfect a mirror she became,
For me, for how I attend to my moment.
Of course, I would worry,
Of course, I would
Doubting life’s capacity
But no matter how long she was absent from the nest,
She would come back,
Or a look-alike,
A mate?
I made that up,
Waiting and watching for her
Or her bird/knight/partner
In soft feathers.
(Google told me mourning doves are monogamous, mating for life. I am surprisingly touched by that.)
Once she was gone overnight.
Oh, how I worried,
Of course, I would worry.
That is who I am.
My first response?
I worry.
I counted myself
A full-fledged (ha!) member
Of the Family of Mourning.
I continued
To watch.
Feedings were
Miraculous,
A synchronized dance,
A bobbing up-and-down,
Between mom
And
Bird-Baby.
When she would leave,
I could see the babies better.
They got bigger.
And bigger.
When would they fly?
When would they
Leave
To explore,
To fly,
To trust the air
To hold them?
A week?
Two?
~~~
One morning,
Here they stood.
The bigger sister,
Always more active,
One morning,
Ready to go.
I could almost feel
Her readiness,
Feet curled on the ledge,
To fly.
I did not see her departure,
Her fledging.
She was just—
Gone.
Her absence took away my breath.
The smaller birdie
Now stood alone.
I imagined,
I projected,
Her loneliness.
Of course, I did.
I am lonely.
I imagined,
I projected
Her lack of readiness
To leave.
Of course, I did.
As I wonder about
My lack of readiness.
Hours and hours passed,
While the smaller baby sat there,
Alone,
No sibling,
No mom,
No food.
Sometime that afternoon,
She was gone!
Breathless again
I became.
The emptiness
Of the nest was startling,
Imagining her finding her way,
Flying through the air.
Until I looked to the other corner
Of the porch.
There I saw
On my camping chair
The little sister.
The smaller bird
Watching.
Not ready yet,
I imagined.
Not ready yet
To fly.
She left the nest.
And now she sat
On my chair,
Watching the world,
As I watched her.
Nothing to do,
Not my business,
No way to help her.
Like me,
She was
Watching the world.
Like me,
Not quite ready
To soar.
~~~
Hours passed.
She sat in the chair
All morning.
Sometime in the
Afternoon,
The chair was emptied.
She was gone.
My heart leaped.
She flew!
As I looked up at the nest,
She was back,
Back in the nest!
There she sat with an adult bird.
I imagined it was the father,
For no real reason,
(Was this bird’s breast rosier?)
I missed the transfer,
The flight,
From chair
Back to nest.
Did the parent bird urge her?
Pick her up?
I will never know.
But there she sat,
With her parent,
Preparing her
Some more
For leaving.
Their feeding was magical.
Oh, how I had worried she was hungry.
Their synchronized bobbing dance.
Oh, to be nourished with such rhythm.
I was—
Delighted.
Enthralled.
Relieved.
Blessed
By this enactment
Of life.
I watched and
I watched.
And hours later—
The next day—
She was gone.
She
Had
Become
Entirely ready
To fly.
~~~
I was grateful and sad,
Loved and honored.
The nest was empty.
~~~
I swept the porch,
Always wondering
How my
Landlady
Judges my
Cleanliness standards.
Thank goodness!
That
I read that sometimes
The doves
Might
Return.
They
Might
Return
To a successful nest.
Was this a successful nest?
I left the nest
As it was.
~~~
And now
There she sits again.
Was it 48 hours later she reentered?
Unclear.
How
I saw myself
Through them.
How
I saw life
Re-create
Itself,
From nothing
Came
Everything.
My only role?
The blessed witness,
Blessed by the
Enactment
Of life
Feeding,
Renewing,
Claiming
Itself.
~~~
And now, in celebration of life, one of the best songs ever wrote, according to this aging hippy-wanna-be. Appropriate now for this moment, and for all moments:
Listen to Paul’s explanation of the song, and its civil rights implications. How appropriate for this, our moment, 2020, that we honor the Black Lives Matter movement, that we commit to the freedom of all of us:
Dear Friends,
Do you see yourself in nature? What messages have you received from animals during this time of distortion of reality? What are you learning from the birds? From the land?
Write it down and share it. Tell me—tell somebody.
To freedom,
To liberation,
For all,
Aruni
~~~
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