Tag Archives: nestbox

The Perfect Job

ImageI found the perfect job for my 17-year-old son the other day.  It’s at the Wild Birds Unlimited store.  They need someone to unload the seed bags from the truck, move heavy boxes, and attend to the sales floor if needed.
Someone who likes nature.
Who likes birds.
Who likes people.
It’s perfect for him!

Which is why, when I suggested it, he immediately said, “No.”

“Sure, Mom.  I can just hear me telling my friends, ‘I can’t hang out with you because I have to go to work at the Wild Birds store,'” he said, a slight smile curving his lips.  Like, “Aww, Mom.  Aren’t you cute!” and then, “Fuggetaboutit!”

Sigh.  OK. That plan did not work out.  Big surprise. However, I won’t lose hope.  His dad has big plans to get him a job this summer, so I’ll wait to see how that works out.

In the meantime, my 19-year-old daughter is home from college, and, after a stimulating conversation last week about why I will not provide unlimited funds for new clothes, even if she goes to Forever 21, she called up a few restaurants to set up interviews. The next day, she got a job.  Then she applied for an internship at the Women’s Center, and on Monday, she was working there.

So there you go.  And I had absolutely nothing to do with it.  Well, maybe a little to do with it.  But, I’m thrilled. It seems that my children DO have their own ideas and opinions, so, I need to let them try them out.

This morning, I’m sitting here in my garden, watching the juvenile bluebirds hanging around the mealworm dish.  They open their mouths, hoping the parents will feed them.  But it seems that won’t work anymore. The parents ignore them and then fly off back to the nest box to feed the newest clutch. It’s time for these fledglings to fend for themselves.

So, here we are, sharing that experience, me and the bluebirds, as we watch out children grow.  We are doing what we have to do, even if it hurts a little to let them go.

Here.
In the garden.

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The mama bluebird nestles

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.

Blue feathers.
Purple nest.
Brown wing tips.
Small, round opening from behind allows the light.

a143b0682ae811e3bc2222000a1f98f9_5I 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 patience,
my faith in the miracle of the circle.
A miracle of holiness.
A miracle of wholeness.

Here.
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

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