Early one Friday morning, as the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, I made my way to the balcony with my breakfast tray in hand. As I turned the door knob, I glanced down through the glass to the porch floor, and there he was, lying motionless with a milky film covering his eyes. And two skinny legs pointing to the heavens. A mourning dove.
I froze, hoping he was only stunned and would soon stir to find his way once again to flight. After standing there for several minutes, I realized that would not be the case. His vacuous stare and still breast indicated lifelessness. The feathered smudge on the door glass confirmed his death by collision.
I backed into the kitchen, placed my tray on the counter, and walked to the bedroom where I said to C, “There is a dead mourning dove on the porch.” After taking a moment to absorb my words, he replied, “What are you going to do about it?”
In our fifty plus years of marriage, C has always been the one to dispose of the pests and make dead things go away. He has killed the spiders, set and emptied the mousetraps, and even carried out the struggling, almost leafless poinsettias at the end of January when I couldn’t bear to say goodbye to them.
So, I assumed he didn’t hear me. In a bit louder voice, I said, “C, there is a DEAD mourning dove on our porch!” And after a brief silence, C quietly said, “And what are you going to do about it.”
It was my turn to pause and ponder. I confess I did think about reminding him in no uncertain terms of our fifty-year agreement. However, my childhood mother whispered in my ear just in time, “Sharon, take a deep breath; count to ten; respond, don’t react.” I waited for response to come. I then said calmly and thoughtfully, “C, I’m going to photograph him.”
I retrieved my light table and placed it on our balcony floor. I pulled disposable latex gloves onto my hands. I gingerly picked up the bird by a leg and placed him on the light. For the next hour I with my camera engaged the beauty of the bird— soft, fluffy feathers, muted yet elegant colors and patterns, delicate beak and thin feet with fragile nails. Turning him this way and that. Getting in close. I saw him— all of him. I received him. I took him in. We bonded. There was in that moment more to the bird than met the eye.
I share here some of my images and how I ultimately put them together in a triptych. The final offering holds for me his essence and speaks to my regular (and extraordinary) experience of life and death and life as the spirit of the mourning dove and I danced together in the early morning light.
I make this offering to you as we approach the church’s Paschal Triduum, the three days from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. In this observance we rehearse the basic, transformational rhythm of the universe…crucifixion and resurrection, ending and beginning, dying and rising.
The triptych is framed and hanging for now next to our front door where we see him as we leave. He’ll so hang until I have stitched these fragments together into an integrated whole that makes meaning for me.
(The rest of the story…After my communion with the dove, I picked him up, again by his leg, and placed him gently in a garbage bag, tying the bag tightly, pausing to give thanks, and moving back into the house …whereupon C met me at the door, took my offering from me, and processed to the trash where he performed a proper burial.)
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