In the photograph, the mama bluebird nestles into the nest box.
Beauty, is my first thought.
How lovely she is!
Large, black eyes.
Beautifully aligned beak.
Her perfectly symmetrical head,
covered with the light and the dark.
Brown wing tips.
Small, round opening from behind allows the light.
I remember watching her build this nest on the “bird cam” we set up. At first, she collected bits of the long, pine straw needles and laid them in the bottom of the box. Eventually, she would hop into the box, lay dawn a straw, then twist and turn her little body, her tiny claws scratching an opening that was softened by the curve of her breast.
Over and over, she entered, nestled, and flew out again. It seemed a bit of an invasion of her privacy, but I hoped for her forgiveness. I was learning so much, about how to build a nest, how to make a circle.
The nest box squared the circle. Inside the edges, a universe opened up. And in this cosmos, the bottom of the nest, the chalice, the darkness, the center, the circle…she laid an egg. And then another. And another. And another. Each sky blue oval was another universe, the infinity of the possibility of creation, the yoke inside — the golden circle — a place of infinite growth.
It was a lovely process to watch.
The first time I saw her enter the nest box, I hollered for the kids. ‟She’s in there, she’s in there!” I called. They came running. And when first egg appeared, they were both thrilled. (At least, that’s the way this mama bluebird chooses to remember it.)
To find my center,
I scratch with my feet a little,
and hunker down,
and rub my chest into the rough spots,
smoothing them with my love,
my faith in the miracle of the circle.
A miracle of holiness.
A miracle of wholeness.
In the garden.
— from a journaling prompt, to describe a photograph, at the Women’s Circles, Women’s Stories writing retreat at the Center for Journal Therapy, Denver, CO, July 18, 2013