Mourning dove and a dog’s love

Life from the maples: mindful journal prompts, gentle read recos, birdsong—and stories that take flight

I was painting my front door sap green when I heard the mourning dove's haunting coo-OO-oo-oo and thought of my brother's family at the beach with their dog Annie of 18 years. This would be their last trip to the water with her.

The sun went down that day as it always does, and I'd just finished the door. My hand clasped the paintbrush as I stepped back to marvel at my handiwork: dimming light flashing hues of gemstones: green tourmaline or malachite.

That evening on our weekly Sunday call, Annie’s tail wagged as her family cocooned her with their bodies. She raised her head, almost smiling at the camera as her teeth chattered from pain. Over the years I'd walked with my brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew along the creeks, rivers, and rainforest paths near their home, while Annie would venture not far away. Her joy was infectious, amplifying my own excitement for our walks. She always greeted me when I'd visit as though I'd never left. Annie was like that.

As the months and seasons progress, the painted door at the front of my home will capture light throughout the day. Perhaps one day it will resemble the grey-green moss on an old log. While another day will remind me of the soupy green plants that wave hello in nearby marshes as I kayak past. The colours will always be changing, even though the paint colour on the door will stay the same.

Turns out the call of the mourning dove isn't the sound of a bird grieving at all, but a mating call. The mourning dove comes by its name naturally, though when it flies, its wings whistle, which is anything but sad. The same is true of emotions. Opposite emotions can happen at once—like laughing at a funeral while also grieving. Feelings aren't binary and yet we often act as though they are.

Next time I visit my family I'll see reflections of you, Annie, scampering along the creek’s shores, stepping onto smooth river stones—your bright, dark eyes lighting me up.

This line by John Muir, activist, conservationist, explorer, philosopher, botanist and writer reminds me of beloved Annie: “The world is big, and I want to have a good look at it before it gets dark.”

📚A gentle read

This week, I’m reading:
Landmarks by Robert Macfarlane

I love how the author weaves land and language to explore the magic and lyrical patterns of the British Isles. Readers will fall in love with nature and the words used to describe snow (fievel; thin layer of snow; Shetland) or bog, marsh (corrach, Irish).

We have forgotten 10,000 words for our landscapes, but we will make 10,000 more, given time.

🌿 Soundtrack for slowing down

Who says country life is tranquil. These spring birds around my treehouse are a chatty bunch! For a bit of atmosphere while you write, here’s a spring soundscape to accompany you:

🥣 Food to nourish you

Here’s a recipe for ginger and cinnamon tea perfect for mindful sipping:

• 1-inch piece of fresh ginger, sliced or grated

• ½ cinnamon stick

• 2 cups (480 ml) water

• Optional: strip of lemon peel or a squeeze of fresh lemon juice

• Optional: honey or stevia to taste.

Combine water, ginger, cinnamon stick, and lemon peel (if using) in a small saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium heat. Lower heat and simmer for about 5–10 minutes to infuse flavours. Remove from heat, strain into a cup or teapot. Add lemon juice and sweetener if desired.

This tea supports calm focus—ideal for slowing down during writing or reflection.

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📝 Mindful writing exercise

Each time I write to you, I offer a mindful journal prompt—a gentle invitation to pause, breathe, and check in with yourself through writing. These prompts are not about perfect sentences or deep reflection (unless you want them to be). Instead, they’re a self-care pause—a moment to meet yourself on the page with curiosity and kindness.

This week’s prompt:
Pour yourself a cup of the warm ginger and cinnamon tea (or another calming tea). Before writing, take a moment to close your eyes and breathe deeply, noticing the warmth of the cup in your hands and the aroma rising to your nose.

Take a slow sip. As you do, pay attention to the flavours—the heat of the ginger, the sweetness or spice of cinnamon, any citrus or honey. Notice the sensation of warmth as it moves through your body.

Set a timer for 5 minutes. Write about this moment using all five senses. You don’t need to tell a story or make it perfect—just let your words capture what you’re experiencing right now:

• What do you taste, smell, hear, see, and feel?

• How does the tea change your mood or your body?

• What thoughts or memories does it bring up?

If your mind wanders, gently bring it back to your breath, the warmth of the cup, and the sensations in your body.

This exercise invites you to slow down, savour the tea, and notice your experience.

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Thank you for being here. Take what you need, leave the rest, and know that your words — even the messy, unfinished ones — matter.

Looking for more mindful journal prompts, creative self-care tools, and gentle community? You’ll find all that (and more) at lissamcowan.com Also, my course Ease Into Calm With Mindful Writing opens for pre-sale on May 1. Stay tuned!

Yours in Ink & Earth,

Lissa M. Cowan

I am grateful to live + work on the unsurrendered traditional lands of the Algonquin people.

PS: Krista Page-Cowan took the feature photo.