FICTION

Off the Writing Path

The dove, the geese, and me

At about 6 a.m., I walk through the sloping greens of a golf course. The air is fresh in the Palm Desert sunrise and so quiet you can hear a hummingbird's wings.

My walks are usually uneventful, but today was different.

A dove kept leading me off the regular walking path, making a cooing, fluttering sound. And she flew slowly enough so I could follow.

I took it as an adventure in my predictable life, pursuing one of nature's mysteries. It was a surreal experience as if I were in a Marc Chagall fantasy painting.

The dove was patient with me as I walked in my extra-wide 4-E sneakers. She took me to a narrow path that diverged from my usual route. I was reluctant since I had a daily routine and wanted to get back home for breakfast, take my medications, and check my blood pressure. Heck, I had stories to write and articles to read. My retirement schedule was full.

It's strange how we allow ourselves to go astray despite being so organized and anal about our routines. I followed this dove because I felt she was a spirit — a cooing guru. I trusted the dove to take me to a place of enlightenment — crazy as it seemed.

So I walked down to a barren, muddy path of sand and dirt. It occasionally rained in the desert, but this area always stayed damp. Birds collected here like private coffee klatches.

I stood in this soggy patch with a group of bewildered geese. Why did the dove lead me here? Did an ancestor send this bird to show me a better way? And how the hell are the geese going to deal with an old guy in a Reebok sweatsuit?

The dove stopped flying and perched on a 'No Dumping' sign as if to tell me we'd reached our destination. And I kept asking myself, What is so special about this muddy desert patch?

I asked the dove, too, but she did not answer — she cooed a couple of times, preened herself, and stared at me. So, I assumed I needed to find out myself. It was about discovery and not being told the answers. I hoped for an epiphany or a new perspective on life.

Minutes passed. My Apple Watch kept telling me to drink six ounces of water and take my blood pressure. The geese looked at me sideways, annoyed but curious. Geese were usually aggressive if approached — so it was odd to see them so calm.

How long should I remain in the mud? I wondered. Should I go back to my walking path and resume my daily routine? But then I'd be curious about why the dove led me here. I'd wonder why I blew this opportunity. A bird rarely takes a human under her wing and leads him to a flock of passive geese.

Thoughts circled my head like fruit flies. Would standing in the mud improve my writing somehow? I write the same crap every day—the same worn-out themes — even use the exact damn words. I'm one big literary cliché. But maybe I might get out of this funk since I recognized it.

I stood there for ten more minutes, not receiving an epiphany. Then, finally, my legs got tired, so I stooped, watching the geese get slightly restless. I wondered why they tolerated my presence and didn't have a bird conniption. Did they see me as one of them, perhaps an uglier version?

By this time, the dove had disappeared, and I was sitting cross-legged in the mud—something I had never done, not even as a boy. Of course, I planned on washing my soiled clothes as soon as I got home. But for now, I might as well enjoy it.

Slowly, the wheels in my head began turning. Maybe I'm supposed to get my hands dirty as a writer? Have I been too rigid and cautious? I've been so concerned with my wife and family's opinions that I've gotten too conservative. Perhaps I must get gritty, not so controlled, loosen up, and confess some of my darkest thoughts.

I looked up at the sky, which grew brighter with fewer clouds, and took in a deep breath. Despite smelling like a bird refuge, it felt good to be in this place. I didn't worry about bills, health, or writing stories—I sat quietly in the mud, listening to my breath. I heard that damp soil nourishes the skin—and maybe it helps the soul, too.

I looked at the geese and shook my head. If I were a goose, I would be skeptical of any human, wondering if they would steal my land or use me for profit or sport. If I were a goose, I'd be more like the birds in an Alfred Hitchcock movie — poking people's eyes out. But perhaps they were conspiring with the dove to change my thinking.

I sat a while longer, and soon, the geese stood up on their two legs and shook the mud from their plumpish bodies. The gander ensured the little ones were present, and the chicks barked in acknowledgment. Then, the birds slowly ascended to the sky and formed a V-formation. Their honking vocals seemed to awaken our slumbering world.

By now, my butt was cold and wet, but I sat alone after the geese had left— wondering how I would explain it to my wife. Would she think I was showing early stages of dementia? Or would she admit me to the nearest mental institution — ASAP?

I walked back along the path, with golf carts whizzing by and people walking their dogs. As I kept walking, I felt that somehow I had changed and been inspired to write out of my comfort zone. My mind had begun to generate several ideas, so I stopped to write them all down on my iPhone.

Thank you, dove! Thank you, geese! I called up to the sky.

I picked up my pace. So excited that I couldn't wait to get home and start to write.

Perhaps tomorrow, I will sit in the pond with the turtles.

© 2022 Mark Tulin

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