The Gift

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: