Empty Nest

(This is an image created from the nest for an auction to benefit animals affected by the BP Gulf oil spill)

A few weeks ago I was cleaning up my very overgrown vegetable garden. I was pulling milkweed and goldenrod from between the beds, and preparing to saw down a Christmas tree sized thistle. As I get closer to the thistle I saw, about 2 feet above the ground hidden in the branches, a fresh bird’s nest with four small, pale blue speckled eggs in it. I gasped and backed up, suddenly terrified of what I had almost done. I hadn’t touched the nest and hoped that I hadn’t disturbed it too much, but I had almost exposed it. I propped brush back up around it and wrapped string around the outside of the pile and didn’t go near it for a week. Tim checked on it though and told me that he had seen the bird back on the nest again. I was very relieved.

Then a week or two later I was back at work in the garden and thought I would check it myself. I peeked through the thick brush and was heartbroken to see that the nest was upset and empty. We hadn’t ultimately been the cause of this nest failure, but something else much lower to the ground had reached up, tipped the nest, and devoured the eggs without leaving a trace. I pulled the nest out and cut the thistle and brush down. The nest is about 6 inches in diameter, with a center hollow of about an inch and a half. It’s soft and thick and perfectly round, all created one blade of dried grass at a time carried by beak and wing. A wonder of engineering and a work of art. I’m so very sad for the mother bird. It is such a tragedy. A small, common tragedy perhaps, but no less truly sad.

I’ve seen a lot of small tragedies lately that would probably never have haunted my thoughts before. I am attuned to them, and each one hurts these days. A perfectly plumed seagull truck down by traffic, a tiny mouse running in the gutter inches from truck wheels, a friend’s disappointment. There have been a few moments when I feel overwhelmed by despair. How can we stand it? This world full of unfairness and small and large tragedies and no way to ever fully protect ourselves. My skin got thin and exposed in the recent loss of our baby, and it hasn’t fully thickened up yet. I do heal, I am fine. I spend most every day very happily right now, and feel quite healthy. I just know something else about the world to be afraid of now. I have experienced a little more of the world’s darkness, a little more of our fragility. That knowledge will seamlessly become part of who I am, but while it is fresh and new now it feels heavy and raw sometimes. This is part of the work of healing. Feeling the sore spot and acknowledging it and watching it fade to a pale scar on your consciousness.