At each elbow, I am flanked by cats as I sit propped on pillows in bed. Alongside the base of my bed, my beloved old dog lies facing out toward anything she might need to defend us from. On her dog bed, a cat curled tight into the dog-made center dent.
Sleep has been so difficult for me in recent years. And sometimes, simply taking in the imagery of my fuzzy companions at rest helps soften me for sleep.
Above my head and out of reach, another family is settling into its own silences on the other side of my wall, under the eaves of my roof. Scrap by scrap, two pigeons have entwined their sleep with mine, their hopes with mine, their future with mine.
In my mid-20’s while living in New York City, I fell in love with pigeons. Some might argue that this was because, during the only two pet-free years of my adult life, pigeons were the only creatures available to me to love. But I think what it is for me is this: pigeons seem to have defined the standard for making the best of what comes. A pigeon can make a life of sidewalk and tar, after all. They are willing live on our scraps. To make rainbows of oil. And isn’t this what the writer does?
Pigeons remind me that you can take the worn out tatters of anything and weave it into something new and extraordinary. And this skill can change the world. By nurturing one small thing and giving it flight. Even when no one is telling you that you are special, or noticing you at all.
There is beauty in this world that only you can bring forward. Pigeons are born knowing this, and they go about their ordinary bird lives without fanfare, certain they belong, distilling experience to nest when the time comes. You can, too.
What kind of nest are you weaving? Who will tuck in with you there? What future are you warming up to liftoff under that sure and powerful wing?
My body settles into its innate belonging in this chorus of bodies curling up inside a blanket of night. Under the eaves, we sleep.