Doves in my garden. (They're a little hard to see.)
This afternoon, my husband spotted these guys hanging out in my garden. He nearly stepped on them, but neither of them so much as fluttered. Maybe they thought they were camouflaged, pretending to be dirt clods or rocks. My husband called me outside and told me leave the dog in the house. The doves allowed me to take their picture, but as I pointed and shot my camera, it became obvious that one of them was more nervous and eager to leave than the other.
Why hang in the garden where a Schnauzer likes to dig? If I were a bird, I would pick a safer place. But what if one bird was hurt, tired, or just not feeling capable of spreading his/her wings?
I’m working on a young adult novel about a girl who suspects she’s a witch. Her grandmother is a witch, but her mother, who is definitely anti-witch, is not. And because this is a story about teenagers, there are love interests, best friends, and some angst. And I love my characters. I especially love my hero, who doesn’t even know he’s a hero, yet. Because I intend to make this into a long series of books, my witch and hero have years and books to go before they really truly fall in love.
The birds in the garden reminded me of what real love is. It’s about two people becoming one, just like the scripture says. “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.” Genesis 2:24
Real love is sitting down when you’d rather fly. It’s going into scary and threatening situations because that’s where your loved one has to go. And sometimes it’s, as Death Cab for Cutie tells us, love is watching someone die.
It’s an hour later, and the doves have left my garden. I don’t know if they’ll return. I hope they don’t. I hope they go on to build a nest and raise a family high in a tree somewhere. But I’m also glad they dropped by.