mourning doves are elegant grey birds with black spots and iridescent feathers on their chests. The violet sheen on their breast is subtle and I hadn’t noticed it until I found a couple of tiny, fine feathers near the railing of my balcony in late January. I picked them up because feathers are positive symbols/omens in many cultural and religious traditions. Think of the artistry and spirituality of any indigenous peoples– i.e. their headdress/clothing. Feathers have held meaning for centuries. When I brought the feathers closer to my face to examine them, I was taken aback by how the sunlight danced bright violet/pink across the surface of their vanes. It was stunning. Here’s a photo showing the colors I reference:

I had a good day today. But on my mind tonight is Palestine and India, and other locations of injustice that live too close to my daily experiences. Why do I care about things that do not seem to affect me directly? Well because I care about the fact that the weight of empathy in the world has fallen disproportionately on certain peoples. It’s simple: someone has to care, and it cannot ONLY be the person/people who suffer directly–that isn’t how community or justice work. Grief is grey. and grey. and grey. And mourning doves are called that because their coo-ing is supposedly a sorrowful sound. I hadn’t associated their cooing with sorrow.

I was on Rice University’s campus as an undergrad the first time I remember hearing the doves. Their song reminded me to look up and appreciate the green canopy that covers the sky over the campus inner loop. There are oak trees planted all along the sidewalks, such that the walks to classes, meetings (and protests, paradoxically enough) were always shaded, and often accompanied by the cooing of mourning doves (if not Miguel’s Adorn blasting through my headphones during freshman year.)

But on the day I found those two feathers I was 8 years older, having graduated from Rice, reentered the workforce for two years, and I’d spent about 2 years in Indiana that I had not processed all the way. On the day I found those feathers I was grieving the mishandling/abuse of the country, mourning other personal things, and tending to injuries inflicted by a lack of experience around boundaries on my end.

I was also lounging in an apartment not unlike the one I’d lived in before leaving Houston that I loved, I was proudly working on one of the largest drawings I’d ever attempted (of black children dancing), and I was taken aback by the way the sun illuminated these little plumes that a visiting bird left on my balcony. The discovery of those shiny feathers was the silver lining in my grief. The violet lining.

Tonight, amid the crimes against Palestine and injustice within the city I live, knowing that the doves mourn with me brings me to stillness. Knowing that they will continue their steady cooing in the mo(u)rning light.