Feathering the nest


I saw a crow building a nest, I was watching him very carefully, I was kind of stalking him and he was aware of it. And you know what they do when they become aware of someone stalking them when they build a nest, which is a very vulnerable place to be? They build a decoy nest. It’s just for you.

~Tom Waits

I was remarking the other day to the other half that we are so like birds, but so unlike them. Birds make their nest to make a family, but then the young are booted out fairly soon after they are born, (depending on the species), to go live their amazing bird lives. Europeans also enjoy the life of birds. Most spend very little time in the homes they’ve built, as they are out enjoying the surrounding sunshine and trees.

People in the U.S., unless they are as rich as peacocks, stay trapped inside, feathering their nests even when there’s no need for it. They get fatter as they fly less, and more afraid of the unknown. Conversations are stilted, awkward, or a mockingbird’s mimicry. Life doesn’t flow, and the songs aren’t from the heart.

Life hasn’t flowed for me in a long time, but I’m finding my rivers again.

I recently finished feathering my nest; my former room for my parrots was converted to a writing room. It’s minimalist: walls the color of blue hydrangeas, two black chairs (one for reading and one for writing), and a black wooden desk. No art except for a ceramic bird (a nod to all the birds who used to live here), and a Frida Kahlo doll. Eventually there will be a small bed.

It’s peaceful, I love it. It’s just for me. However, I hope I spend very little time in it except when writing. Nature is waiting.

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