Of Pigeons and Feathers

Last August, I came upon this insightful gentle man. I was intrigued by the feathers protruding from his backpack, and his slow interaction with the birds surrounding him.

He was picking at something in the garbage and feeding it to a pigeon perched on the garbage can. I missed the shot of the pigeon calmly eating out of this hand.

I leaned over to see what he was picking at, and I saw a dismembered pigeon - only wings and head remained. (I hope that he was feeding the live pigeon cheese that was next to the partial pigeon)

We chatted and he informed me that he knew why the pigeon had been mutilated. According to him, there are people who love pigeon meat. They scatter rice and grains for the pigeons to feed on, which when ingested expands and ruptures their stomach and kills them. The pigeon meat aficionados then come along and collect the carcasses, leaving behind heads and wings. Could it be that this explanation resolves the murder mystery?

Before parting ways, he asked that I take time to look at pigeons as they take flight, so that I might be astonished at the colour of the feathers under their wings. He also urged me to hold a feather up to the sun and look at the sparkling light produced by the sun filtering through it.

I encourage you to do the same.

Miner Wisdom

My Papa passed away 8 years ago. We did not converse much, and yet he has left me with a heart full of dialog. I am guided daily by the advice and opinions he imparted on me - wisdom which I obstinately chose to ignore or argue while he was alive.

Tonight as I was awkwardly struggling with a drill, a hammer and a hacksaw, bloodying my knuckles, and straining muscles in an attempt to dismantle a broken sofa bed, I remembered a funny moment between us.

I was recently separated, and Papa was over to help me fix things around my new home. As we accomplished task after task (with him doing most of the hard labour and me assisting), I repeatedly and proudly exclaimed, "Ha! Who needs a man - see I can do all this myself!"

Abruptly, Papa grabbed me by the shoulders, held my attention with his calm blue eyes, and said, "Hey, you can ask Maman if you need proof, but I do happen to be a man... and here you are... needing me!"

The Goddess of Love Wears Nail Polish on Her Toes

Except for the last few months, for over 30 years, I have only worn nail polish on my toes. A strong and silent type, gave me a touching present last night; 5 mini bottles of sparkly nail polish. The gift brought back a memory…

When I was skinny, dorky and 14, I had an English teacher named Mrs. Thomas. She was supposed to teach us English literature, but mostly she just managed to keep the class under control. Her class rules were simple - if you were tired, you had the right to sleep, if you were stoned, you had the option to zone out, and if you happened to be interested in literature, she allowed you come to her desk and discuss the readings.

I loved reading, and I loved her, so, of course, I always went to the front to discuss the stories and life. She called me Lakshmi, Hindu Goddess of Love and Beauty.

One day I came in with my finger nails painted a bright post-coital red. Mrs. T, looked down at my fingers, then up at my face, and asked, “Did you put nail polish on your toe nails too?”

“No.” I responded, surprised by the concern in her usually composed voice.

“Only bad girls wear nail polish on their finger nails. If you want to wear nail polish on your finger nails, you must also wear it on your toe nails. Make sure that tonight you put nail polish on your toe nails too. It will de-bad you.”

“Oh, okay.” I responded respectfully.

With that she smiled and we proceeded with the literary discussion of the day.

That night I removed all the polish from my fingers, and then painted my toe nails the same red.

“There, that should doubly de-bad me,” I sighed happily.