Movies to Watch on a Rainy Spring Evening
Warm & imaginative films for the season, a word search, jelly shoes that are bubblegum scented, and a pigeon-filled work of fiction to read before bed.
Hello and welcome to another edition of Feeling! Magazine.
Feeling! (with the exclamation point) is a lifestyle magazine about creating, designing, and living with more zest for life. It’s the kind of thing I think Phineas and Ferb would likely read. Within years in the throes of grief, I started making joyful things, like color palettes and hand-sketched reminders of hope. I did so instinctively, like a survival mechanism, despite how I felt. When I started sharing my work online, a community grew of people who also needed some hope and beauty.
I became a middle school teacher, and for the first time, realized what we are truly up against. I saw the epidemic of anxiety and depression firsthand in kids who should be playing on the playground, but were gripped in despair. My colorful resolve strengthened in the classroom as I sought to make a place on campus where kids felt hopeful about the future.
Somehow, even on really hard days for me, I was able to find hope outside of me and channel every ounce of it towards them. We solved real problems, we made things with our hands, and we worked. Creative work, for me, has always been a balm to panic — and it turns out it’s the same for twelve-year-olds, and maybe for all of us.
Things like preparing food, decorating a space, or even choosing what color to wear are dismissed as frivolous or meaningless. But I’ve experienced the exact opposite. The remembrance of a birthday, a shared meal in a tiny apartment, a handwritten note, a shared moment over coffee — these are the things that matter immensely. These are things that push back against an epidemic of despair; these are things that keep people alive, I believe.
I’ve combined my love for design and writing to make a magazine I wish always existed. I write about making a life that intentionally echoes hope, as hope is a muscle to strengthen and fight for, not something you stumble upon when you have a really good day. It’s not about buying new things or rebranding yourself monthly. You, just the way you are, are quite lovely. You’re not a vessel for spending money, you’re not a KPI, you’re YOU!
I hope whatever it is that feels like bouyancy to you — dedicated time to create in the kitchen, re-arranging your space, making things with your hands, or connecting with your community — is simply enhanced by reading this publication. My goal is that when you get a notification from Feeling! it feels like fresh air.
I want to thank you sincerely for being here and reading. If you’d like to support this publication and my goal of turning it into print, you can do so by subscribing. I deeply appreciate your comments, too! I don’t know if you realize how much they mean to me. I always say the comment sections here are the best part of the entire internet, as we truly engage with one another, offer advice, and send encouragements. If you are a frequent commenter, I know you by name, and you truly make all the hours I spend making a newsletter feel welcomed. Thank you. If you have yet to dabble in the magic of the comment section, I would love to invite you to join in. It’s really a wonderful community, and we’d love to get to know you.
Coming to Feeling! this week: homemade coffee/tea recipes, including a banana foam matcha & blackberry lavender latte, an announcement of a new secret club for paid subscribers, and a guide for spring dressing!
A pale pink meets a jewel-toned plum. Perfect for stripes, polka dots, and extravagant floral patterns.
Every year, I sell a limited amount of color dot calendars. I set aside a small stash to cover for any postal losses, weather damage, etc. And this year I have leftovers! I’ve listed them online for half off, and have about 15 left. Every month is a full spread of colors, serving as fun decor for the whole year! I’ve never placed them on sale before, but I would love to send you some color! Get one here.
Movies to Watch on a Rainy Spring Evening
with Guest Curator, Connor O’Brien
I do not know another person who enthusiastically takes time to research and diligently answer a text that says, “What movie should I watch tonight?” And he does get that text quite frequently!
Meet Connor O’Brien, the guest writer for this list of film recommendations, and the guy I’ve had a crush on for over 10 years. He’s a documentary filmmaker and a lifelong movie-lover. He is a legend amongst our friends for picking the exact right film for the exact right feeling.
I asked him to make a list of films that feel like a rainy spring day, maybe a little moody, but only leave you feeling warm and imaginative. After a long winter, the last thing I want to watch is something that will leave me in a glum tailspin. I want something lighter and brighter, but still with a depth of feeling.
Here are Connor’s recommendations and his notes to help you pick your next watch:
Ever just watch a city breathe while you look through a rain-streaked window? Wong Kar-wai crafts two love stories that barely touch but echo each other in longing and timing. While there’s a melancholic element at play here, the artful storytelling is so entertaining and beautiful that the credits roll and you’re still wearing a smile from a scene that happened twenty minutes ago.
The kind of film that reminds you how close we all are to being known, if only the timing were just slightly different.
A true whimsical tale with a few valuable life lessons. A son tries to make sense of his father’s life, but the truth seems to drift into myth. Tim Burton delivers something softer than his usual edge, giving us something more tender. Despite the cheer of the film, we remain grounded in the ache of wanting to understand someone you love before it’s too late.
Beneath this humorous and adventurous film that many of us have seen, there is a sobering story about stepping into the unknown and discovering who you are outside of fear. A modern animated classic, I’d say. It’s easy to celebrate spring when you know it came out of winter.
Closer to documentary than you might expect, Lee Isaac Chung brings this film to audiences with a lot of heart. A quiet story about a family trying to take root in unfamiliar soil. It’s about faith, disappointment, and a small, stubborn hope. Production is a bit stripped back, but it allows for a more human connection to be felt, something that A24 has been able to champion - especially in their early years.
The Japanese government literally wanted Wim Wenders (director of one of Jenna’s favorites, Paris, Texas) to show off their new toilets installed around Tokyo. Instead, he makes an Oscar-nominated feature-length film about a toilet cleaner living a simple, repetitive life in Tokyo, and somehow reveals how full that life can be. It invites you to slow down, to notice, to be content with what’s right in front of you. Don’t be surprised if I’m still talking about this movie when I’m 80 years old.
This film was a big, sweet surprise. I completely misunderstood the concept and therefore didn’t watch it until last week, but there’s something inherently tender about the idea of stepping into roles of care, even temporarily. If done well, stories like this tend to explore what makes human connection real in the first place. Fitting for a grey, rainy afternoon. Maybe you shed a tear, but it’s joy that ultimately wells up during this film.
The beginning of a worthwhile trilogy. Especially if you like dialogue-led character-exploration with a flirtatious lead duo. Two people connect for a few fleeting hours, and somehow it feels like an entire lifetime is being weighed in real time. Richard Linklater lets conversation carry everything here, and it provides a refreshing gap of spectacle, just presence.
Perhaps you’ve heard this all before. Totoro is a mascot for cozy, rainy-day movie watching, but it’s still a worthy pick here. Childlike wonder in its purest form. Hayao Miyazaki captures the magic of ordinary days, like just waiting at a bus stop, walking through trees, and listening to the rain. It’s comforting in a way that lifts your spirit.
This is one of those hear-me-out moments, because the mention of Adam Sandler isn’t what most people would expect to find here. But…hear me out. This is a beautifully strange, anxious kind of love story that lands on something very sincere. Paul Thomas Anderson (finally an Oscar winner) shows us a chaotic man with stunted emotional intelligence and lets him stumble into his own tale of unexpected love. It’s awkward, unpredictable, but so charming and funny.
Let’s give it up for Rob Reiner and this story that knows it’s a story. This film is easy to delight in. It’s romantic, funny, and even a rare rewatch for me. There’s something about its sincerity beneath the humor that makes it feel like soul food on a rainy day. Quote this with your friends if you’ve seen it before, or settle in for an incredible adventure if it’s your first time.
— Connor O.
✸ I made a recipe for earl grey cremé granola, and we have already devoured the entire batch. Making granola was so much easier than I expected, and honestly, kind of a meditative process. I also share a recipe for a citrus matcha blend, lavender honey almond, and one we dubbed the “coffee shop blend.”
✸ If you are hosting guests soon, perhaps you could find something useful in this piece where I detail turning 700 sq. ft. into a weekend boutique hotel for 5 guests.
✸ If you are decorating your space, revamping your spring wardrobe, or updating your Google Calendar, it’s helpful to have some reference palettes. I’ve made a whole collection here.
✸ Feel like taking a quiz to discover what early 2000s Windows XP icon you would be? Well, great news. I have the newsletter for you!
Hello! I am here to enthusiastically share some favorite things I’ve recently used/worn with you!
Bubblegum-Scented Jelly Shoes: Okay, I have the find of all finds. The perfect spring shoe, priced in a way that you want to get one in every color. Melissa’s jelly shoes are made with a signature bubblegum scent. Yes, bubblegum scent. Like you are a Polly Pocket. Mine arrived this week, and I can personally attest to the quality and comfort. I am absolutely confident they will last me until winter, and absolutely confident you will rarely see me without them on! They are also shockingly comfortable. I went for bright red!
King Sear Cast Iron: If you’ve been reading along, you know I have discovered my favorite hobby is cooking. I’ve been working to teach myself how to do it correctly and transform some of my basic skills into more serious ones. I recently got this cast-iron skillet, and it’s transformed the taste profile in my kitchen. I was always intimidated by cast-iron since I could not throw it in the dishwasher, but, like many things, it is much simpler than I assumed. I have been cooking most everything on it and am impressed with its quality and durability. (I have the olive green one!)
Polka Dot Tote Collection: Joyn released a new, adorable collection of polka dot totes and purses. The ruffles are simply fabulous. Even more so is their fair-trade production process and the heart behind the brand. I have some of their collection from winter, and I cannot believe the bags are block printed and sewn by hand! The canvas fabric makes for a much tougher tote you can hold on to for years to come.
Buffing Bar: Soft Services is a soap company that my skin really loves. My eyes also really love them, because everything they make is really beautifully designed and packaged. The buffing bar is a bar of soap with some serious grit. It’s an exfoliant that will clear your skin up as you gently scrub. A pop of cobalt blue in the shower could not hurt, either.
Oscar Wilde: I am on a classics kick and just finished “The Picture of Dorian Grey” for the first time. I’ve read Oscar Wilde’s short stories, but this one had me absolutely zeroed in until I finished it. I loved reading “The Scarlet Letter” (not sure what that says about me, haha), and the themes overlap remarkably.
Comfortable Jeans: Oh, these old things? These are just the jeans I have been wearing every day for a month. Sézane may have just become my favorite for denim. They are soft. And they are flattering. And the wash is the perfect denim shade. And they fit in the right spots and flare a bit at the feet.
Mineral Milk Perfume: Dedcool, my favorite fragrance brand, has made a signature scent for summer. Mineral Milk is a combination of passionfruit, lavender, ocean air, amber milk, and sandalwood. It smells like a memory of a trip to the sea — how it smelled to return to your room after staying out by the water all day. The travel size is only $30, and ready to go to the sea with you.
Fiction is magic, fiction is essential. Taking a note from my favorite magazines, fiction embedded in an editorial publication seems like a perfect match. I contracted D.B. Taylor of Paper Mirror to write a fictional story for you all to enjoy.
Inspired by American Girl’s Coconut and Licorice, a fictional tale of my own dog and cat, Genevieve & Rose, has been coming to you in small chapters. Here is the final chapter, along with the complete story, all in one place.
Follow a whimsical story of a dog and cat duo navigating New York City when no one is looking. The story will have you on the edge of your seat, and perhaps so invested in their joyful, silly world so much that you pause scrolling just to sit with them for a bit.
Enjoy thoroughly!
Rose and Genevieve and the Mysterious Pigeon Crisis
Chapter 1: A New Adventurer
“I can’t wait to see Mr. Owl!” barked Genevieve. The dog’s brown fur matched the golden hue of autumn leaves, which floated like tiny ships riding the breeze. She wagged her tail so hard it threw her off balance. Both she and Rose walked with purpose.
Central Park carried a crispness in the air. The fall chill was brisk enough to encourage a jacket, but only an unbuttoned one. Multitudes of people strolled the little forest, each holding a warm beverage in hand and a story on their lips.
It was easy for Rose to press forward; it was harder for Genevieve. There were simply too many smiles, and far too many potential pets. Still, her self-control proved true, for she only stopped for a dozen belly rubs.
“You hear me?” Genevieve bounced. “I can’t wait!”
Rose rolled her eyes. “We just saw him,” purred the cat. She didn’t understand her sister’s need to be so excitable.
“I know! But he’s so funny! Once we solve this, he’ll be happy, maybe he’ll even make us some of that special tea!”
Rose tried to remain indifferent. But for some reason, Mr. Owl’s tea came to mind, perfectly warm, perfectly sweet, and somehow... perfectly kind. The thought startled her. How could a drink be kind? And yet, it just made sense. Despite her cunning nature, she didn’t notice the smile creep across her face, slow and sneaky.
“You want some too, don’t you?” Genevieve grinned wide.
“No such thing,” hissed the cat, bending her smile into a frown. She had to be the serious one, after all. Daydreaming about tea would only delay them! But inside, her heart danced like the pigeons used to.
They trotted in silence, noticing the sky grow thin and lifeless.
“So why do you think the pigeons stopped dancing?” Genevieve asked, cocking her head in that very doggish way. “Where might they have gone?”
Rose said nothing; she too wondered. “How strange,” she finally purred.
Suddenly, a small pigeon darted low, nearly giving Rose a heart attack. Genevieve barked, “What’s the matter? Are you all sick?” The little white bird’s movements were sharp, frantic.
“Please! What’s wrong?” Genevieve cried. They chased after it, until the sound of jackhammers and power tools shattered their focus. Both cat and dog turned toward the noise, but when they looked back up, the pigeon was gone.
Rose petted her chin thoughtfully. “The noise, the construction, it’s messing with their rhythm.”
“You think?” Genevieve said, scanning the sky, hoping for the bird’s return.
“It’s a hunch,” the cat shrugged. “But I think it’s true. Think about it, ever since the noise started, all the animals have been acting strange. You can’t even find a squirrel on the edge of the park, it’s that loud.”
The construction seemed to be the culprit. The jazz musician who once played on the corner was now replaced by orange cones, the only kind of orange that clashed with fall.
“Look!” barked Genevieve. “That kind old man, the one with the breadcrumbs, he’s not here anymore!”
They both stared at the empty spot; it was lonely without his presence, cold even.
“Good eye,” meowed Rose. “Let’s start with him.”
Chapter 2: The Mouse with the Message
The old man was nowhere to be seen! And in the weeks that followed, as the air grew chillier and chillier, Rose and Genevieve found not a single lead.
“What on earth are we going to do?!” barked Genevieve. Her sister always had the answers, and this was a rare moment Genevieve actually wanted to hear one. But alas, like Genevieve, she had nothing.
The two sat under a bit of shelter in a dusty old alley. The rain poured down like pigeon tears, heavy, endless, and full of mystery. They sat and thought. And thought. And sat some more.
Then, squeak.
And again, squeak, squeak, squeeeak!
The sound grew louder, like tiny footsteps made of rubber bands. Rose noticed first, and to her great annoyance, she found the source: a mouse, waddling confidently their way.
“How funny!” Genevieve barked, noticing the earnest creature. “I love the noises he makes when he walks!”
Rose gave a strained smile, the kind reserved for other people’s strange enthusiasms. Truth be told, she hated mice. Most cats do. And most mice return the feeling with interest.
The mouse skidded to a stop and unfurled a tiny, rain-stained bit of paper from the clutches of his tail. To Genevieve’s shock, his voice came out deep and gravelly.
“You the ones lookin’ for Mr. Chester?” he said, refusing to meet Rose’s eyes.
Rose, in turn, refused to meet his. She lifted her nose so high it nearly sucked in a cloud.
“Rose! Don’t be rude!” Genevieve scolded.
But Rose remained frozen, a statue of feline pride and disdain.
Genevieve turned to the mouse. “That’s the old man who feeds the pigeons?”
The mouse nodded firmly, so firm in fact his body bounced.
“That’s Mr. Chester, all right.” He side-stepped closer to Genevieve and away from Rose. Then, puffing himself up to his full two inches, he pointed a trembling finger.
“Listen here, missy!” he squeaked in his gruffest voice. “You best leave Pops alone! He’s had enough of your kind!” Like an untied balloon, his demand started deep but ended with a shrill squeak.
The accusation shocked Genevieve. Her tail drooped. “My kind?” she whimpered.
“Yes, your kind! Dogs!” the mouse declared, stamping his tiny foot; a puddle of water kicked up and drenched the poor fellow. Mr. Mouse winced, but then continued as if nothing happened. “Always chasin’ away the pigeons. It’s a conspiracy, I tell ya! And you’re to blame. Poor Mr. Chester’s been heartbroken since his birdies left him!”
His tough exterior melted as his voice cracked. The mouse turned away, hiding his tears, but the trembling of his little shoulders betrayed him.
“Oh no...” Genevieve whispered. The thought broke her heart. Whatever tears the old man might be crying, oh how badly she wanted to just lick them all away! I tell you what, reader, the world would be a better place with a Genevieve present for each and every tear.
The mouse reluctantly turned, trying so hard to suck in his sadness.
“I’m so sorry, my friend.” She whimpered, stretching her paws forward until they were eye level. Her big brown eyes met his red, watery ones. “It wasn’t me,” she said softly. “Me and Rose were sent by Mr. Owl to find out what happened. We just want to help.”
Rose, who had been pretending not to care, finally lowered her gaze. All hostilities tend to dissolve when you see another cry. She gave a quiet, rumbling purr, flicking her tail just so, brushing away his tears.
The mouse blinked in surprise, then leaned into the soft rhythm of her tail. He even gave it a shy pat.
“I’ll take you to him,” the mouse sniffled at last.
And so, under the drizzle of rain and tears, a cat, a dog, and a soggy little mouse began their next adventure.
Chapter 3: The Rain, the Mouse, and the Pack
They were forced to find an alternative route. Some spaces were far too small for poor Genevieve to fit through, and nearly too small for Rose.
“Nobody gets left behind!” ordered the mouse.
So the three of them scurried through the rain. Genevieve had a sneaking suspicion that the mouse’s noble statement had less to do with wanting everyone together and more to do with not wanting to be alone with Rose.
They continued in silence, wet, chilly, soggy silence. The mouse darted only through alleys, no matter how narrow, no matter how mucky. Every few steps he would freeze at a sound, sniff the air dramatically, then, after a long minute, beckon them onward with a tiny wave.
“What is with this thing?” Rose muttered, flicking her drenched fur. Water dripped from her like a used towel. The mouse no longer cried, and she remained cold, wet, and grumpy.
Genevieve growled. “Rose, he’s helping us! I know you two have your differences, but could you please try to be kind for goodness’ sake?”
Rose recoiled. Genevieve almost never growled. The words hung heavy in the rain.
Dear reader, as much as we’d like to think otherwise, change takes time. Rose’s earlier sympathy for the little mouse had melted away, replaced by that old, mean whisper inside her head: Mice are stupid, smelly, tiny, and pointless. Unless she caught herself, she’d believe it again and again. Fortunately, Rose had a sister who loved her enough to tell her the truth, even when it stung.
The rain poured harder. Both Rose and the mouse began to shiver, the kind of full-body, silly shiver that shakes your ears and makes you smile after because, well, you must have looked ridiculous. By sheer coincidence, they both gave one of those shakes at the same moment, both noticing the other. For the first time, it seemed maybe cats and mice weren’t so different after all.
“Here!” barked Genevieve suddenly. She loved the rain; it reminded her of happy splashes and puddle days. But her friends were miserable, and she wanted to help.
Being the perfect height for such things, Genevieve trotted over to Rose and walked above her, matching her pace.
“What are you—” Rose began, but stopped when she realized she no longer felt the rain. Warmth covered her. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Purring, as silly as it sounds, Rose forgot what dryness felt like.
Beside her, the mouse hugged its tail, teeth rattling with every step.
“Mouse,” Rose called. “Come under me.”
Mr. Mouse hesitated for a moment. Cats love to play tricks on little mice, so he watched her with wary eyes.
“Come on, don’t be ridiculous! It’s freezing out there.” Rose smiled, beckoning the mouse once more.
Despite his fears, despite his past experiences with cats, he trusted Rose. Something about him just wanted to, maybe it was just the cold. Or maybe the want for a new friend. Either way, the miserable little mouse lit up like a lantern. He scurried under the cat, who walked under the dog, who took all the rain away. Genevieve smiled because they smiled.
The walk grew warmer, brighter, softer. Only Genevieve bore the rain now, but she didn’t mind. Nothing made her happier than seeing two friends become friends themselves.
But then, a low growl cut through the peace.
Before they knew it, they were surrounded.
Everywhere they turned, dogs stood in the rain, big, small, fluffy, muddy, and mean. Some had big fat heads, others narrow snouts; some flashed sharp teeth, others silly grins. But every last one growled the same ugly growl.
The mouse dared not peek out. Rose trembled under Genevieve’s belly, her tail puffed like a feather duster.
“What’s the matter with you? You’re scaring us!” Genevieve yipped.
“Good!” snarled the largest dog, slobber flying. “You’re the one trying to bring the pigeons back. Well, don’t! They’re nothing but rats with wings!” He stopped to grin at the mouse. “No offense.”
The pack erupted with cruel laughter, the kind that has no joy in it at all.
“Enough!” Genevieve barked. “We’ve done nothing to you! The pigeons have done nothing to you!”
More laughter.
A skinny dog with a high, whiny voice slunk close to Genevieve’s face. “You think we’re awful, don’t you?”
“It took you this long to figure that out?” hissed Rose.
The skinny dog snarled, lowering his head toward her. Rose instinctively recoiled, tucking Mr. Mouse safely beneath her.
“Stop it! Just stop it!” Genevieve cried, bouncing on her paws, desperate for the bullies to back away.
“You love those pigeons so much, huh?” one dog barked. “They’re a nuisance! Always hovering, always cooing, always—”
A fat-headed dog shoved his friend aside. “You don’t owe them an explanation.” He turned to the pack. “Let’s go.”
They all stepped closer, rain dripping off their snouts, eyes blazing. Genevieve stood tall, the rain pouring down her head. Rose and the mouse trembled beneath her, but Genevieve didn’t flinch. She wasn’t scared, just mad. Mad at the meanness.
“If you get in the middle of this,” the fat-headed dog growled, “we’ll stop you. The pigeons are our enemies. Don’t make yourselves one too.”
Then, as quickly as they appeared, the pack scattered into the shadows, leaving the three travelers alone again, their hearts pounding, the air heavy with what they’d just witnessed.
The rain fell softer now, but none of them felt quite as warm as before.
Chapter 4: The House of Dust and Quiet
The old man’s house was quiet and dusty. The orange paint on the walls had faded to a tired peach, chipped in spots like worn-out memories. A bookshelf leaned in the corner, sagging under the weight of too many books and too many years.
The old man sat in a rocking chair, swaying gently back and forth. In his hands he cradled a steaming cup of coffee as though it were a fragile treasure.
“I’m not going to scare any pigeons away!” Genevieve blurted suddenly.
The room was so still that her voice seemed to echo. The old man tilted his head, amused.
“We... we’re here to help,” Rose added, giving her sister a sharp look that clearly said: Try to act proper.
The man smiled. “I’m glad to hear that, little ones.”
Their mouse guide scurried up the man’s pant leg and perched on his shoulder. He whispered a series of squeaks into the old man’s ear.
“I see,” the man said, stroking his beard. “So, good old Mr. Owl sent you two. Fine fellow, that one. Why I didn’t ask for his help sooner, I’ll never know.”
“What’s going on, sir? How can we help?” Genevieve asked, her voice soft with worry.
“Easy now,” said the old man, resting a weathered hand on her head. “Some problems can’t be fixed. Some we must simply grieve. It’s the pigeons, they’ve fled. Once again, the city’s turned against them.”
Rose’s tail flicked in irritation. “It’s the construction,” she hissed. “Must they always tear down walls and use such loud machines? It’s a shame, truly a shame.”
The old man gave her a long look, one of those glances that feel warm and piercing all at once, like a sip of coffee that’s so hot it prickles your throat, but somehow that’s what makes it good.
“Ah,” he said with a smile full of wrinkles. “Is that what you think?”
Rose blinked, caught off guard. Had she missed something? A calculation, a truth she hadn’t considered?
“It would be far easier if that were the case,” the man went on. His smile remained, but the shine in his eyes dimmed. “But no. It’s not the noise, or the cranes, or the jackhammers.”
Genevieve and Rose exchanged a puzzled look.
The mouse straightened on the man’s shoulder, clearing his throat with a squeaky authority. “The construction keeps my people safe,” he said. “Especially in winter. Mice aren’t welcome in many places, you know. New homes mean old homes get left behind, and that’s where we move in.”
The old man nodded, a tear slipping down his cheek. “It’s something deeper than the construction. There’s always noise in New York; those pigeons are tough enough to nap through a thunderstorm. No, it’s not the noise.” He sighed, voice trembling. “It’s the perception.”
Rose tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
The old man took one last sip of coffee, then set the cup down gently and leaned forward. The chair creaked, the air thickened, and even the mouse went silent.
“Let me tell you a story...”
Chapter 5: The Pigeon Got a Boy
Oh, he was so very excited to finally have one! He had heard that humans threw quite the party. You could fly and feast whenever you wanted. However, what the pigeon didn’t expect was the friendship.
He loved his boy. He would nestle into the boy’s soft hair and fall asleep while the boy read fairy tales aloud. Together they traveled all across New York, visiting bakeries, candy shops, art museums, and everything in between.
In those days, nearly everyone had a pigeon perched in their hair or proudly sitting on their shoulder. They didn’t beg for scraps or make a fuss. They were family, and they were welcome.
The boy had a friend named Trey. Trey didn’t have a pigeon, but he had a dog. The four of them, two boys, one dog, and one pigeon, met often in the park to play. They played tag, cops and robbers, all sorts of games. The boy laughed the hardest whenever the dog barked, how it yipped and yowled, woofed and whined, and the boy laughed and laughed and laughed.
This should have made the pigeon happy. But the more the boy laughed at the dog, the sadder the pigeon felt.
The more they played, the less the pigeon seemed to belong.
“I know!” thought the pigeon one night. “I’ll learn how to bark!”
So he tried. Oh, how he tried! He spent night after night practicing. But no matter how he strained, he could only
“Coo.”
Loud coos, soft coos, in-between coos, but never a bark. His nature simply wouldn’t allow it.
The boy grew frustrated. The louder the pigeon cooed, the more the boy woke in the night. “Stop it!” he’d shout, not knowing the pigeon was only trying to make him happy.
Then the pigeon noticed something else. The boy loved giving the dog treats, watching its slimy tongue scoop the snack from his hand, watching it bounce up and cover him in happy licks. The boy would squeal and laugh, and the pigeon’s heart would ache again.
So when supper came, the pigeon waited for his turn. He cooed and bounced around the table, trying to lick like the dog did, but his tongue was too small, and his beak too big. Instead of laughter, the boy frowned. Sometimes he’d swat the pigeon away as though it were a fly.
One night, desperate to get it right, the pigeon rushed at the boy, hoping to knock him over in a joyful, dog-like hug. But instead, poke! His beak jabbed the boy’s cheek.
The boy cried.
And the pigeon’s heart shattered.
He panicked, flapping wildly, wings a blur, and before he could think, he flew straight into the ceiling fan. Thwack! The blow sent him tumbling into the wall.
When he woke, everything hurt. His wing throbbed, his feathers bent at odd angles. But what hurt most wasn’t his body; it was the look on the boy’s face.
The boy sat frozen, clutching his cheek, his parents hovering behind him with anger in their eyes. The pigeon was no longer loved. No longer welcome. And he knew it.
So he left.
He flew out the open window into the night air, wounded and weeping, vowing not to return until he learned to be like a dog.
And so he practiced, cooing, begging, licking, over and over and over again.
But he was not alone. Other pigeons began to notice. They too had felt the same rejection. One by one, then two by two, the pigeons of New York began to change. Not in feathers or beaks or wings, but in heart. They thought, perhaps if we bark too, the humans will love us again.
So they gathered on rooftops and windowsills, in church towers and alleyways, and practiced together. Their voices filled the city nights, soft coos trying to curl into growls, gentle flaps trying to sound like paws on pavement.
And more joined, and more, and still more. Until every house, every home, every apartment in New York stood empty of pigeons.
Now it is the skies that hold them, flocks upon flocks of pigeons, circling and circling above the city, still practicing. Still trying to become dogs.
If you listen on a quiet morning, you might hear it.
Not a bark, not quite a coo, but something in between,
the sound of love misunderstood,
echoing across the rooftops.
Chapter 6: Where the Pigeons Danced Again
Genevieve couldn’t stop whining. Instinctively, she rested her head in the old man’s lap. He looked upward, petting her absently. At first, Genevieve thought the drops she felt were from a leaky roof, but then she realized. They were tears. So she stayed quiet.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Rose purred, gently rubbing against the man’s foot. “You were the boy.”
“I was,” the old man whispered. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were full of childlike wonder.
Suddenly it all clicked! Genevieve leapt so high her head nearly grazed the ceiling.
“Come! I’ve got an idea!” she barked.
Rose thought her sister had gone mad, especially when Genevieve started tugging on the old man’s sleeve, spilling his coffee and dragging him from his chair.
“Genevieve! Manners!” Rose hissed.
“Come on! We don’t have much time, they might leave!” Genevieve said through sleeve-clenched teeth.
The old man, confused but curious, followed the dog and cat back into the chilly New York rain, with Mr. Mouse clutching his shoulder for dear life.
As expected, the growling began, just like before.
“I told you to stop this mission!” barked the fat-headed dog. “Why won’t you listen?! The pigeons are monsters! They might look cute and cuddly, but—”
“No!” Genevieve interrupted. “I think I’ve figured something out!”
The lead dog blinked, and one by one his friends stepped out from the shadows, surrounding the group again. Mr. Mouse fidgeted nervously with his tail.
Then, six simple words cut through the growls. Cheerful. Innocent. Disarming.
“Wow, you look just like Bruno!”
The lead dog froze. His eyes widened. “Bruno? How do you know my great-grandfather?” he asked the old man.
The old man chuckled. “I knew him as a boy! Me and my pigeon used to play—”
“Enough!” snapped the dog, cutting him off. “They need to leave, all of them!”
Genevieve gasped. “You think they’re dangerous, don’t you? Because of what your great-grandfather told you?”
The dog’s ears drooped. “He knew a pigeon that pecked...”
“A boy,” said the old man softly.
The dog nodded.
“I was that boy,” the old man said, his voice a whisper.
“Quick, tell them the story!” Genevieve urged.
Every dog cocked its head in unison, ears pricked upward like little spikes. And so the old man told them.
At first, they snarled and scoffed, unwilling to pity a “nasty” pigeon. But as the story went on, the boy, the laughter, the mistake, their shoulders began to sink. Ears drooped. Growls turned to sighs. Soon, they were lying flat on their bellies, heads between their paws, listening.
“...So you see,” the old man finished, “like you, the pigeons were pets, abandoned for trying to become something they were not. They weren’t trying to hurt anyone. They only wanted to be loved. And that was my fault. If I had loved my pigeon for being a pigeon, none of this would have happened.”
Tears spilled down the man’s face.
“I... I...” The fat-headed dog stammered, and then, to their astonishment, he began to cry. Big, round, floppy-eared dog tears.
“I understand this pain!” he wailed. “For I’ve wanted to be a pigeon!”
Rose blinked. “You’re kidding.”
But he wasn’t. In fact, every dog began crying, howling like wolves beneath the moon.
“We all have!” sobbed the fat-headed one. “Pigeons are free! They can fly! They always look so happy! I never knew they just wanted to be dogs. Why on earth would they want that?”
The old man placed a gentle hand on the dog’s head, steadying the poor pup’s tearful shake. “Because dogs are special, too, just like pigeons.”
The dog sniffled. “We said it was because of violence, that’s why we chased them away. But it wasn’t true. We wanted to replace them. My great-grandfather was mistaken. We all were.”
He bowed his great head in shame.
And then, the second most surprising, most wonderful, most magical thing happened.
A pigeon landed softly atop the dog’s head.
It didn’t bark or lick or pretend to be anything else. It simply ruffled its feathers, the way only a pigeon can.
And to everyone’s amazement, the bare gray sky began to fill, pigeons everywhere, swooping and gliding, cooing and dancing, filling New York once more.
This, dear reader, is where our story ends.
And what an ending it is! Rose and Genevieve, Mr. Mouse and the old man, the fat-headed dog, the skinny-headed one, even the slobbery one, they all gathered with Mr. Owl that evening for a kind and gentle cup of tea.
Together they watched the pigeons dance and dance and dance.
So, next time you see them, look up.
Notice their flight.
And give thanks for the courage and kindness of Mrs. Genevieve and Mrs. Rose.
The End
Visit the comments for a little group project. Would love to hear your thoughts!
Thank you, Hailey Howe, for your lovely work on Feeling! Magazine Graphics! You made this Monday Letter magical!
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GROUP PROJECT:
1. Seeking (early) activities and moments that make summer FEEL like summer to you! Places, foods, scents, etc. Be vivid, please!
2. Do you have a spring movie pick to add to the list?
Before Sunrise AND Totoro on the same list—love!!! 10/10. Thank you so much for this. Never heard of Perfect Days before, def going to watch this week!