There is a Mourning dove who is sitting outside my room here in a growing town in a beautiful county in California where you couldn't find a job to save your life unless, unless, unless. The dove calls for another I suppose but I take it as a lament to all that is lovely, yearned for, lost and found again and acknowledged. It is a beautifully sweet and plaintive call and a bit somber. I remember the same call this winter, maybe January, when I began to wake up from the almost 12 years of chasing real estate values for the government. I remember the Mourning dove as a siren call then, guiding me to the loss of a profession that I now view as less than respectable.
For those of us who watched our property values plummet $100,000 to $200,000, it was freaky. You had to pinch yourself from becoming comatose. Now, it feels strange to hear of people like my gal's former friend who was laid-off, then foreclosed upon and then found herself at the helm of a mental and emotional collapse. Though this story is more and more evidence of our culture, we should be concerned but we are not. We seem to take the news as if this is what is current. And if it is not us, then why should it be a concern? There are lots of reasons and great books to reflect the downfall of a nation. However, it is personal isn't it? Aren't these humans our brethren?
Maybe the Mourning dove knows more than we give him credit for on this foggy Friday in August. Maybe he calls to all that lost innocence and is trying to get us to realize how far we are from the heart of the matter. Our hearts.
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