give me something gentle / make it sentimental {or the robins' nest, Part III}

{This is Part III of a story about the robins who have built their nest on my balcony.  I'm sure you can pick up what's going on—just use those context clues skills that got you through so many standardized reading tests. But I'd also recommend reading Part I and Part II; it'll make the story so much easier to follow, I promise.  And I'm not just saying that so that you'll stay longer on my blog.  I really do want you to have a good story experience.  Really.  Now click.  And read.}

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By the time I wrote a poem about the bird nest that appeared on my porch light, I had clearly absorbed several lessons from the robins and their nest: times of emptiness can quickly become times of fullness, for one.

Take time to stand in the sun and wonder at the richness around you—that's another one.


Both of those sound like lessons that could be made into framed art, optimistic reminders of the enduring hopefulness of life, perhaps expressed in mosaic or line art featuring flowers and mountain meadows.


They'd be the kind of pieces sold at farmers' markets and craft fairs, a snippet of Americana that causes people in big cities and small towns alike to pause and wish they felt less compelled to check their email 24 times a day. To wish they could more consistently and truthfully be okay with turning off the to-do list part of their brain that’s run by a lizard: darting here, darting there, eyes darting to the next task to do do do.


Now, just a couple of weeks after writing that poem, I’m having thoughts that are less craft fair appropriate.


They are: Shut up. Stop flying in front of my face. You’re ugly. Can you chirp in a pitch that isn’t a scream? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you have a bit of worm stuck in your beak.


Who has such bitter thoughts towards robins, of all creatures? Skunks, maybe, or raccoons, I could understand, but robins—they lay Tiffany blue eggs, and every spring, seeing the first robin makes me want to wear a flowery skirt, even if there’s still snow on the ground. Robins are a cause for celebration, not targets of my darkest thoughts because I can’t control their chirping.


But isn’t that the way life sometimes is? Something new lands in your daily life, and suddenly, you’re writing poems about watering cans and being full to overflowing.


Then the novelty wears off, and what was once energizing becomes a normal grate on you, even though you don't want it to. It becomes this accepted part of your life, and you can become blasé about it, take it for granted, treat it badly.


Tell the robins to shut up when all they want to do is sing to and protect their Tiffany blue eggs.


I wanted these birds to come. I wanted to love nature, right here on my doorstep—or actually, on my porch light. I wanted—I still want—more watering can moments.


But I also want to sit on my balcony without feeling that I’m going to be in a modern-day take on Hitchcock’s The Birds. I’ve gotten a very up-close look at the sharp beak of the robin, and let me tell you, you don’t want that thing anywhere near your eyes.


The stand-off between the robins and me is, I’ve decided, an example of expectations not matching reality—and how you can veer off the path into a swamp when you start to demand too much of your expectations.


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{Wow, doesn't it seem like I just opened up a whole new topic?  The whole expectations vs. reality thing?  I'm so not writing about a bird feeder anymore, and that's what I enjoy so much about writing.  The surprises you find yourself stumbling upon.  The turns your writing can take.  I thought I wanted to vent about those dang birds, but those dang birds have led me here, to this twist of a statement about expectations and reality.


And yes, I'm going to end there for now.  If you have any deep, revelatory thoughts about this, you should let me know; I'm still sorting it out in my own head.}

you should get a bird feeder

I started this bird nest story yesterday.  To get the full picture of my transformation {from someone with dreams of birds serenading me to a person who actually says to a robin, "Shut up! You're ugly!"}, you should read that first part.

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I imagined birds flying up to my feeder, landing gracefully and lightly, nibbling gracefully and lightly, all the while serenading me.

Please note that my dream view of how birds act may be slightly influenced by that scene in Disney's Cinderella when the birds help her get dressed.  Working together, they tie her sash into a bow that would make a beauty queen in the South jealous:  so even, so flouncy, so flattering.

I didn't want the birds to help me get dressed; I can tie a rather flouncy bow all on my own, a skill I developed in cheerleading that has yet to translate into a useful life skill, unless you count dressing up American Girls dolls as a life skill.  Not that I still dress up my Samantha and Kirsten dolls.

Anyway, we should return to the birds and my bird feeder.  It doesn't have your typical birdseed in it, nor is it a hummingbird feeder to draw in the blurry fast ones.

I use cut fruit in my feeder—oranges and apples, mostly—stuck on a skewer.

Ok, that makes it sound like I have the cheapest, shoddiest bird feeder ever, and I'm trying to pass it off as unique.  Contrary to what it sounds like, I did not take some popsicle sticks and shove rotting fruit on them, hoping for the best and duct taping them to the balcony railing.

This is an actual bird feeder; there's even a ceramic bird resting on top, like a decoy.  It's yellow and its beak is curved into a smile beyond normal levels of bird joy.  This is so the other birds know that a) it's safe on my balcony, and b) the only way to ever look as happy as this is to come visit this fruity, fun-filled feeder.

The decoy is a sign to birds that this balcony—full of flowers in various stages of dying because gardening is not a gift of mine—is bird-friendly.  I will welcome them, feed them, encourage their singing, and give them a place to rest.

Not long after I put up the feeder, a robin couple moved in. 

They might've decided that this is the right neighborhood for them because it's been quiet out on my balcony for the last few weeks.  I've been travelling a lot for work, and then there was the vacation to a cottage on a lake in Canada.

Except for the friend coming every few days to check on my plants, this has been a calm place, the bird version of the suburbs and just the spot to raise a family, or at least get them past the egg stage.  After they leave the nest, you know, all you can do is cross your wings and hope that they'll be okay.

I first noticed the nest when I was home for less than 24 hours between work trips.  After realizing that I didn't need to bother unpacking—and could, in fact, re-wear the same outfits on Business Trip #2—I stepped onto the balcony to appreciate nature, a gentle moment to sit somewhere that wasn't an airplane or a board room.

A robin zoomed by just as I opened the door, and I looked to see where she'd come from:  the porch light, where she was building a nest.

I was instantly taken with this idea, this way I was integrating with nature without even realizing it.  This bird and her bird husband {I assume they are married, but you never know these days and it's okay if they aren't} had chosen my balcony out of all the balconies around.

I was sure there must be a sign, some message from God about living simply but purposefully.  I spent several moments watching the nest, breathing deeply, and trying to cultivate one of those “awareness of nature” moments. 

The next afternoon on a plane to Minnesota, I wrote that poem about my nest {I clearly really want you to read that poem, and if you haven't by now, I don't know if you're a very careful reader, but I can say that you're a discerning link-clicker}.

I was already thinking of my nest a little territorially.  My birds.  My nest.  My opportunity to be deep and reflective about nature and then be rejuvenated by that pondering, even though my body and mind were worn down to nubs.

My poem.  {Oh my gosh, another link to it.  Please tell me you've read the poem by now.}

{And let me tell you, it didn't take long for me to go from pretending to be Cinderella, serenaded by birds, to a rage-rage-against-the-chirping-of-the-robin.  Coming up tomorrow, or perhaps Sunday:  I am transformed from the girl who can tie a perfect bow into someone unrecognizable, someone who yells at birds, someone who has Very Bitter Thoughts about God's creatures.  You know, someone normal. You can read about that transition here, in Part III of the Robin Saga.}

the robins' nest

I wrote a poem not too long ago about the bird nest on my balcony.  I wrote another poem earlier in the spring about a bird waking me up.  I laughed a little at my slowly developing theme.  Perhaps I wanted to fly far, far away?  Perhaps I just think birds are adorable?  Perhaps I should write a whole series on birds, and then go all multi-art forms and do paintings of birds?  I could make my own bird book!  I could...

You see how my mind easily gets away from me.

Below is the beginning of an update on my bird nest situation.  It's turned ugly.  Brace yourself.  Although this little snippet of the story isn't too bad.  And I do still like birds, but I've scaled back plans for the bird book.

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The robins on my balcony are deliberately pecking away at my patience and love of quiet order.  Chirp.  Chirp-chirp.  CHIRP.  They never stop their communicating and singing and being so—birdy.

Every time I step out the balcony door—no, it's worse than that.

Even if I'm just sitting in my reading nook, tucked into the corner of my living room by the windows onto the balcony, even then, the robins who have built their nest on my balcony are chirping.  If I stand up, they both fly to the railing, facing me in the windows, and have this look that makes me think that maybe they're concealing little pistols under their wings.

Are they worried I will, in one unpredictable motion, rise from my book and nook, burst through the window and terrorize their nest?  Why must they chirp like they don't trust me to behave?

I realize that I've invited them here.  I'm the one who went into spring with rhapsodic dreams of birds singing to me in the early morning.  Can you blame me, though?  I live in the Chicago suburbs; winter is quiet except for the scrape of snow plows and that muffled hush you can kind of hear when snow is falling.  

Birds singing—a part of nature being so dazzlingly loud and chipper—is an appealing idea every spring.  And with that idea in mind, I bought a pretty, unique bird feeder because I wanted to bring the birds to me.

{And they came, which you can read about in Part II. I'm like the Field of Dreams, right here in Illinois, only with birds and no baseball because I'm not all that into baseball.}

nesting

A bird is building her nest on my balcony.
I saw it today for the first time when I stood,
empty watering can in hand,
for a few extra moments
in the sun.

Right in front of me,
water dripped from a hanging basket of yellow petunias.
I wanted to
gulp in simple nutrients like my flowers,
to be full to overflowing:
my cup runneth over.

That's when I saw her nest.
A hideout of a home on top of my porch light.

She is building her nest with my hanging baskets,
strands she steals from me—
although I've never seen this, it must be true—
but I do not mean to accuse: she isn't stealing.
She's naturally resourceful.

I watched her nest,
empty watering can in hand,
willing her to come back,
to pull another piece of her home from my hanging basket,
to show me how she builds with only a sharp beak.

I stood a few extra moments
in the sun
wondering what makes a home

before turning
passing through the door to my home
to re-fill my watering can
that now runneth over:
with stray strands of home, simple nutrients I gulp in.