Five years ago, my husband and I bought our first home, relishing the joys of our own walls, our own lawn, our own silence. And for five springs, I’m ashamed to say, we have rushed through our lives, barely aware of the natural world that also calls this plot of land home. (We only seemed to notice nature when it dared encroach on our space, when ants came inside the kitchen or squirrels dug up “our” lawn.) We saw ourselves as so separate from nature that we hardly knew it was there.
And then came this time of social isolation, this great pause, this season in which we have time and energy to notice.
About a month ago, as we were settling into this time of social distancing, my husband urgently whispered to me, “Come! Look!” And there in the tree just outside our window was a nest with a robust, throaty robin, chirping away. We had seen plenty of birds alighting from this tree, but we had never before seen a nest, carefully crafted from twigs, grasses, mud, even hair. (Had there been nests around our house before that we never took the time to notice?)
In the days that followed, we saw one, two, three perfect, baby blue eggs. For the next two weeks, we watched the eggs and their diligent Mama Bird each day. (It isn’t lost on me that we’ve always called my own mom Mother Bird, and now I was lovingly referring to this beautiful avian-kin as Mama Bird.) Every day we very quietly spied on the nest from inside our house. When Mama Bird perceived that we were watching her from the other side of the glass, she flew away, taking our attention from her precious nest.
One day my husband again called to me, “Come! Look!” Mama Bird had flown away, and in the nest we saw three gaping beaks straining upward. Eggs had become nestlings! Each day, we delighted in the way the baby birds were growing and becoming more like Mama Bird. Their eyes were opening, their feathers growing in, their chirps growing louder.
And just like that, they were gone. About two weeks after the eggs had hatched, the baby birds jumped from their nest and soon learned to fly. But the lessons they had to teach us were still there, cocooned in the nest just outside our window. Slow down. Notice. Linger a little while.
Invitation
by Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings (2013)“Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busyand very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistlesfor a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the airas they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mineand not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thingjust to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.”
As Mary Oliver says, “It could mean something. It could mean everything.” What does it mean to you?
—Andi Lewis, Prairiewoods marketing coordinator