Then, the sound comes.

A low, mournful call, deep and resonant, echoing across the stillness.

The mourning dove.

I close my eyes. There is a weight in its voice, a sorrow edged with gentleness. But beneath that sorrow lies something else—renewal. The dove does not cry in despair. It sings in remembrance. It sings to remind me that the past flows into the present, and the present into the future, always shifting, always moving.

In many traditions, the mourning dove carries medicine for healing and transformation. It is a bird that belongs to the “Between Times”—the spaces between endings and beginnings, where the veil thins, where we stand at the threshold of what was and what will be. This morning, as I sit in this sacred pause, the dove reminds me that I, too, stand in such a space. A time of change, of shaping dreams, of releasing and receiving.

The timing is no accident. The dove calls just as I begin my reflection* weaving its song into the soft hum of the waterfall, into my breath, into the quiet stirrings of my heart. Its message is clear: let go, but also move forward. Mourn, but also renew. The cycle continues.

There is wisdom in surrender. There is grace in embracing the unknown.

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of its lesson settle into my bones. The dove does not fear change. It welcomes it, carries it in its wings, knowing that even in sorrow, there is life waiting to unfold.

The day stretches ahead. I take another sip of tea, nodding in silent thanks to my feathered messenger. Whatever awaits, I will meet it. With open hands. With an open heart.

With the wisdom of the dove guiding me forward.