Percival
Dear friend,
I’ve sad news to share.
Chiara and I went to see a performance of Return to Palestine by the Freedom Theatre at Theatro Technis near King’s Cross in London last night.
The play was created by the actors from stories gathered with Palestinian communities from Jenin refugee camp and city, Fasayel, Dheisheh refugee camp, Mufaqara, and Jabalia Camp in Gaza.
The play did its work—through humour and story, making the abstract real, physical, grounded in relationship.
We were both thinking about the pigeon alone at home in a box in our kitchen. The rescue people couldn’t come to us, so I was to drive the bird to a volunteer named Mel, who knew how to treat them for what she suspected was a mite infestation in its beak.
We were invited for dinner after the play, and I found myself agreeing—although my guts were telling me to go home.
Chiara hadn’t wanted to leave the bird.
But we told ourselves it would be alright.
It wasn’t.
When we got home, the bird—Percival—had died alone in a box in our kitchen.
I held his soft, cold body and my defences kicked in.
“Oh well, you tried. It’s a pigeon—a bird you hardly know.”
We were saddened and horrified, and in that space where you’re still hoping for a miraculous reversal.
He’ll open his eyes, I’ll dip him gently toward the water so he’ll drink, and we’ll get him to Mel.
And then the pain.
You have to feel it—let it do its work, which is the work of transformation. I put Percival’s body in its box in the garden shed until morning—this morning—when we’d take him to the wild marshes and find a beautiful place as his final resting place.
When you’re in emotional pain and the false self starts in on you, you realise how vicious the shut-off parts of ourselves can become.
“You should’ve come back!”
“Why didn’t you listen to your intuition?”
“When will you learn—what’s it gonna take?”
Sitting in the fire, I looked that part of me in the eyes and invited it home.
“Come sit with me in the flames,” I said inwardly, holding out a hand in welcome.
You can burn in the fires of grief, and only that which is unreal will perish. My false self became quiet, and the energy of Percival’s loss moved through my body, steering me into a calm harbour, and I was able to rest.
We found a tall tree by the river and laid him in its roots with a wild rose for company, then cycled home.
I thanked Percival for the lesson he’d come to teach me.
“Attend to the living. Listen to your intuition. Be willing to disappoint others and follow your truth.”
And this is the loss of a rock dove.
And the people all around the world who are being hurt and abused?
How can there be anything other than compassion in our hearts?
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey