There is a bird’s nest that sits on my parents’ mantel, an ugly conglomerate of mud and twigs. My mother found it in the backyard of the first house she and my father bought together, the only house they have ever owned. They only lived there a year, but the bird’s nest has traveled with them each time they have moved since. I stopped counting after a dozen.
Each time we moved, the nest was wrapped carefully in packing paper--bubble wrap if we could get it. Sometimes we would double and triple wrap it in other fabrics: placemats, table runners, wall hangings – other decorative items that we made certain we packed gently and snugly so they would be in good shape to take out for special occasions and display around each new house. Our own nest we neglected to handle with such care.
In our family colloquial, ‘nest’ has always been synonymous with ‘home,’ and home was family, because our environs were always changing. We prided ourselves on our ability to rebuild our nest after each move, on the bonds of love that we were certain would hold our home together. Yet somewhere along the way our nest began to crumble, and I don’t think we even noticed when the first cracks appeared, or if we did, we didn’t realize their gravity. Maybe there were pieces of our nest we left behind with our shattered hearts. Maybe we miscalculated in the rebuilding and didn’t leave enough room for each of us to grow. However it happened, when each little bird flew the nest, we found it too little and too brittle to come home to.
I am a mother now (and believe me, the nesting instinct during pregnancy is real) but now I build my nest with great trepidation, because a nest is a fragile thing.
The family I grew up in, the one that had come to mean home more than any particular place is now scattered. If the distance between us was only geographic I don't think I would mind, but now there are members of my family who do not speak to other members and there is a stubborn reluctance among all my siblings to fly home if it can at all be avoided.
Looking at the baby nestled in my arms now, I hope this is only a season for our family. If I could, I would wish her many happy reunions with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents and weave a nest of loving relationships all around her, but I am not sure whether all those strands can be brought back together. Failing that, at the very least I want to build my nest big enough and strong enough that it will never feel too frail or too small for my little girl to fly home.
All nests are fragile--it is their nature and it gives them their beauty--but for all their fragility, perhaps the solution is not to handle them with care. Let the storms come! A good nest will weather the elements. When the rain stops falling and the winds subside, we will assess the damage and repair it. Perhaps that is the secret of a nest that lasts: its builders are continually at work rebuilding and reinventing it-- patching up one side, lengthening another, using whatever materials are at hand.
In the end, it may be a very different looking nest than when it began. It will change with each reconstruction, taking on the colors of each season. With such a changeable nature will it still be the same nest? If it is true to its purpose of providing a home to its inhabitants, then yes! Confidently, yes!
God, who taught the birds and numbers the sparrows, please help me also. Help me to build a fragile but enduring nest.
