Fables for Grown-Up Children

4. Pigeon

Pigeon cooed sadly to himself. He was delivering a Chirp for the umpteenth time and his wings were faltering. Chirps aren't heavy--I think by now we've established what little bits of nonsense they are--so it had to be existential angst that was dragging him down.

"Should I, or shouldn't I?" he muttered. "I mean, I'm a pigeon. We don't live that long. I could make the wrong decision and waste my entire life on a foolish pursuit! It may come to nothing!"

He soared over the top of The Mountain. Hedgehog, Squirrel, and Frog were at the summit, cheering wildly as they hugged one another. They jumped up and down as a unit--a strange unit of fur and quills and green leather. Frog had really dried out at this altitude, but looked exhilarated. Pigeon saluted the trio.

"They decided what to do," mused Pigeon. "They just went for it. Why can't I decide?"

Swirling down in a tired spiral, Pigeon spotted his target: Goat. He completed delivery with a sigh, then flew off to the stream and watched the salamanders awhile. "Should I?" he wondered in the shade of the bank.

He sailed above the Brook of Faces. Fox and Rabbit were busy, and Possum was spying on them. He watched the activity below, fretting all the while. "Perhaps I shouldn't."

Pigeon went as far as the village that day. Perching on cobblestones, he chewed over his question as he chewed his bread. "I should!" he thought. But by the time he got up to the rooftop for a good long squat, he had concluded he shouldn't.

He left the village and swooped over the meadow. Turkey was strutting through the tall grass. "Definitely should not," he concluded.

For the moment.

It was maddening. Perhaps Duck could help. Back to the stream Pigeon went.

"Duck, I have a problem," Pigeon began without so much as a hello.

"Only one?" Duck replied. You lucky...pigeon, you."

Pigeon cooed pathetically. "But it's a big problem, Duck. I can't decide whether I should be a writer, or keep doing what I'm doing. If I choose the wrong path I may waste my life."

"What occupies you currently?"

"Delivering Chirps and seeing to other Pigeon Business."

"Oh. Well, how badly do you want to be a writer, Pigeon?"

Pigeon shrugged. "It varies day to day, truth be told. So maybe I shouldn't."

"Do you like writing, Pigeon?"

"Not really. I mean, I like eating bread more than I like writing. But I like how it feels to have written something. I like writing when it's done for the day."

"That's puzzling," said Duck.

"Tell me about it! Perhaps it means I should, then?"

"Are you any good at it?" Duck inquired gently.

"That's just it! I don't know anymore!" Pigeon wailed. "I've spent so much time reading Chirps and such that I don't know what's good or bad now."

Duck wiggled and drank some water and swam in a circle. This was a tough case.

"Then forget good," Duck declared. "Do you have an important message? Or a distinctive style?"

"Not like you and Turkey do. Say 'Duck' and everyone thinks 'quack'...one of the best words ever. Mention Turkey and immediately 'gobble gobble' comes to mind. You two are icons, and I have nothing that compares to that. So I'm thinking I shouldn't."

Duck narrowed her eyes. "Pigeon, tell me what you did today."

"I delivered a Chirp to Goat on The Mountain. Then I watched the salamanders, visited the Brook of Faces...Possum was acting strangely...had lunch in the village, surveyed the meadow, and came here to see you. But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Pigeon!" Duck smacked her wings onto the surface of the water so hard that her visitor had to shake droplets from his oil-spill plumage. "No one else has that kind of perspective! No one else goes that many places or observes so many creatures! What you have to offer is your perspective! It is wholly your own, cannot be taken away, cannot be duplicated!"

"How could I have good perspective and not know it?" asked Pigeon in a small voice.

"Because when it comes to ourselves, we all have blind spots, no matter how amazing our perspective on the rest of the world. Isn't that funny?"

"It's hilarious," said Pigeon, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Oh my dear, I promise it's going to be alright." Duck was doing her best to coo now. "Just one more question. How do you feel when delivering Chirps and doing Pigeon Business and not writing?"

"Like I'm wasting my time," Pigeon answered matter-of-factly.

Duck blinked her eyes and became very still. The current of the stream threatened to carry her away. "Does writing feel like a waste of time?"

"Oh never," replied Pigeon. "I often don't feel like doing it, and it's not exactly fun. I don't know about being a Writer, which sounds fancy, and I don't have a special style and I'm not sold on this whole perspective business. But somehow, despite all that, it never feels like a waste of time."

"Then for quack's sake, you should do it!" Duck screeched.

Pigeon chuckled. "Classic Duck."

Duck splashed him on purpose now. "Life is made up of time, Pigeon! If you do something that never feels like a waste of time, how can you worry that the pursuit will amount of a waste of your life?! Life is time, Pigeon." She wanted to be sure he got it.

"I knew you'd have the answer," replied Pigeon with a smile. "You are one wise duck. Thank you."

"Go write down what I just told you," instructed Duck. "And then keep writing. No more wavering, only writing."

Pigeon flew off, lighter than the breeze that carried him.