A twig.

A needle.

Some lichen.

Feathers from nestings past.

 

A safe place. Protected from the sun. Sheltered from the wind and rain. Guarded from predators and threats.

They do this.

 

Each year. Like clockwork.

The chickadees and the stellar jays.

 

This year, at my home in Incline Village, Joyce has returned. And she’s brought some of her coupled friends. Instead of just one nest… close by the front door, we have three. One at the front door. The next just a couple rafter bays away. And then one in the third rafter bay on the back porch. Joyce? You ask? Yep – the name Ciaran gave her three years ago. I’m assuming its still Joyce, as this is the third year she’s picked the same spot.

This year, at my home in Saint Helena, a first… a first times two. I love seasonal wreaths. I have one on the front door. And one above the outdoor fireplace on the back deck. To my surprise, as I watched chickadees darting to and fro the other day, I found a nest… a nest times two. One tucked into the ornamental flowers in each wreath. Tiny compared with Joyce’s and her girlfriends. Tidier too… little yarned up cups, tightly woven, like special little baskets. And low and behold, due to warmer weather at lower elevation, we have chicks already. Two in each nest… four total. Three remaining as I write.

Joyce will lay her eggs any day now. The past two years she’s laid three each time. And, in time, three chicks came to life. Each time.

So this year… perhaps we’ll have a flock of thirteen? Four from the Napa Valley… and nine from the High Sierra.

 

 

Two by four’s.

Architectural trim.

Insulation.

And some decorative treatments.

 

A safe place. Protected from the sun. Sheltered from the wind and rain. Guarded from predators and threats.

We do this.

 

We nest. And in our nests, we live. With all that comes with life. Especially.. life. Our children. Our pets. Our families. Our friends.

Each day, we come and we go. In to our larger worlds. School. Work. Play. Sun up. Sun down.

At the end of each day, we return. To our nest. To nest. And nourish. Feed. Chat. Laugh. Share. Sleep.

To start it again the next day.

As the days pass, one to the next, and as our worlds and world view become larger, in time… we outgrow our nests.

 

The chickadees are fully feathered now. ‘Flocked’ as it is. They’re ready. Ready to fly. I watched one mom the other afternoon dart about in the front garden. There was something about her energy, flitting from apple espalier to apple espalier that seemed to say ‘ you can do this! You got this! … Just stand up. Spread your wings. And jump. You’ll fly! ‘ .

The one little chick, looking at me – me with the door propped open, intent and staring at me as if to say… ‘ what do you think? I know she’s right. Is it time? Time to fly? ‘ .

I said ‘ yes ‘ .

 

Soon, its usually middle June, Joyce and her girlfriends’ chicks will all be asking the same thing. The answer will be the same. ‘ Yes ‘ .

Its time to fly.

 

As they do… the thirteen of them. They’ll adventure. See flowers they could never have imagined. Land on boughs they didn’t know their talons could hold to. Feel rushes of air under their wings that will buoy them, soar them higher and higher, providing the thrill of free dropping. And with a slowing whoosh, bring them to safely land on whatever precipice they choose to admire their views from.

When they have a moment to reflect. Perhaps as the sun sets. Over a grassy field where their new found flocks of friends dart about, they’ll remember. Their nests. The first ones. The ones they were born to.

Shortly, they’ll be thinking of their own nests. The ones they’ll need to build as the seasons change. In the places they know they’ll return to because of sound decision making and solid choices over the seasons now passed.

Its spring time. Nesting season. Time to sit contently, protecting the dreams that represent tomorrow. Insure the protective strength of those glossy shells open. Letting in all that sunshine… when its time.

Its time to fly.

 

As we do. Child after child. Sibling after sibling. Family after family. Generation upon generation. We adventure. To see if the grass can be greener. The water cleaner. The sky bluer. The fields more plentiful. The laughter of children more happy. The embrace of a neighbor more warming.

When we have a moment to reflect. Perhaps as an elder passes. Resting on a perched rock, high above the Sierra crest, we remember. Our first nests. Our first ones. The ones we were born to. Bandini. And Anna. Trenton.

And then we think to the nests we’ve built on our own over these many years. Pachappa. Laguna. Arriba. Samuel. Tyner. Pelton and Reed. Returning now with a new chick in our fold. To share stories of a time past. Memories that carry the profound weight of special meanings. To reflect on the growth. And the laughter. The tears. And the aches. Then… then we turn to those old nests to collect new sticks just around them.

And needles.

Feathers from nests past.

And we fly.

 

Together.

The sun on our shoulders.

The wind at our back.

Wondering… Where shall we land today?

 

Where shall we build.

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