I admit it. I discriminate against pigeons.

I fled city life years ago to live as far away from all things urban as I could. Yet here in my wild paradise lives a flock of pigeons.

Other common birds I do revere. I consider migrating geese old friends and welcome them back to the lagoon as they pass through each spring and fall. I’m devoted to the many crows who live here, and they’re certainly ubiquitous and not at all exotic. (Though a wise friend once reminded me that there are no ordinary crows.)

But pigeons reminded me too much of cities to inspire my admiration. I had classified them as a nuisance, right up there with mosquitoes and carpenter ants. However, today I listened to Bird Notes from Seattle Audubon (audio file is below) and I acquired a new respect for pigeons. And why not? Just because they adapt well to city life is no reason to shun them. Just because they’re common is no reason to ignore their subtle beauty. In fact, they’re amazing athletes, capable of flying hundred of miles per day at up to 70 miles per hour. Fanciers still train and race homing pigeons.

So I decided to make up a story about my local flock of 20 or so pigeons.

I imagine they began life in Seattle, then one day followed a gull down to the pier and hopped a ferry to Bainbridge Island. From there I bet they explored the amazing inland waterways and lush forests of this area. Finally, they landed here, on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Enjoying some of the freshest air on the planet, which is cleansed by its long journey across the Pacific, my flock is adapting well to a wilder existence.

They always roost on the same, small red house on the beach—perhaps because it’s rarely occupied? Unlike their city cousins, these pigeons have no one to beg handouts from. I wonder if they miss bread crusts and french fries? They’ve learned to live off the land, and by the looks of them, they’re thriving.

If I can resettle here at the beach, who am I to resent wise pigeons for doing the same? They were already here when I arrived, and we all consider this magical place our home. As sure as I am that this is where I want to spend the rest of my life, I bet these pigeons feel the same. This is our home.

So when my dog and I went for our walk today, I made a point of appreciating these splendid birds and applauding their good taste in dwelling places. We have all found our way home.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• How about you—beyond the rooms where you reside, how do you define HOME?
• Do you love where you live?
• Do you fantasize about living somewhere else?
• Where is your true heart home?
• What are you willing to sacrifice to get there?

Many years ago, at a weekend meditation retreat, we were all chanting the classic: Om Namah Shivaya. We chanted this mantra very slowly for hours to a backdrop of Indian music. Well into the marathon, I had one of those “aha” experiences that can derive from such deep inner exploration.

Suddenly I heard myself singing HOME Namah Shivaya, and had an awareness of my true home being not some place on the planet, but within me. That my soul was my real home—and that like a turtle, I would have my home with me wherever I went. It was one of those personal insights that doesn’t mean as much to someone else, but was profound for me.

Home has always been a charged concept to me.

As an only child with no extended family nearby, my childhood homes were often empty and quiet. I can’t imagine living in a house bustling with lots of people—or even one other person. I am, however, a supreme nester, and always put enormous time, energy and resources into fluffing my nest every time I move.

Yet, as a hermit, I reject society and prefer to live alone with my familiar and my garden. My dog and I and my many plants flourish on our own, with only rare visits from the select few people I’ve allowed into my life. My home is not set up to entertain. There is only space for two people in my sitting room, and that other chair has been claimed by my dog. Instead, I fill my home with books and stones and crow feathers and bleached bones and horse chestnuts and orchids and shells and books, books, books.

If I drag away a 6-foot scented geranium, I can squeeze three people at my table, but that only happens about once a year. When I set my table for company, the dishes seldom match. I collect interesting plates from thrift shops, but I only buy one of a kind. I don’t need—or want—things in pairs.

The point of my rambling is to suggest that you, too, meditate on what HOME means to you. And the next time you see a pigeon, say hello and admire its adaptability. Oh, and here’s the real kicker to this story. I bet you admire the beautiful, iconic white doves of peace? Well guess what. Doves are just white pigeons—which shows the value of some good branding and P.R.

Meet more of my bird allies here.