I peeked out the door this morning to see if the world was ready for me yet.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one wondering.
Two mourning doves were tucked into the white pine, one above the other, looking just a little worse for whatever weather they had been sitting through. The concrete was still wet, the air still damp, and neither of them seemed particularly interested in rushing anywhere.
They looked a little rumpled. Feathers puffed, bodies rounded, each settled into a branch as though they had already decided there was no prize for being the first one back out into the day.
I understood.
The last several days have carried enough rain to keep me inside more than I prefer. I have looked through windows, checked the patio, watched the concrete, and waited for the moment when outside felt available again.
There is a difference between seeing the world from indoors and being part of it.
The doves seemed to understand that too, in their own dove sort of way. They were outside, certainly, but they were not exactly participating yet. They had found a place to wait.
Maybe that is part of returning that we don’t talk about very much.
We tend to think of returning as movement. Going back outside. Getting back to work. Resuming the routine. Picking up where we left off.
But sometimes returning begins before any of that happens.
Sometimes it begins on a branch.
Sometimes it begins in a doorway.
Sometimes it begins by checking the sky and deciding that you are almost ready.
In a few minutes, I will head out to the patio. The chair will probably still feel damp around the edges, the air will carry that unmistakable after-rain smell, and the puddle may or may not have much to say today.
The doves may still be there when I settle in.
Or they may decide before I do that the world has dried enough.
Either way, for a few quiet minutes this morning, the three of us seemed to be doing the same thing.
Waiting for things to dry.
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