Sometimes I remember with such fondness and nostalgia the season when I had a handful of tiny, cheeping chicks in the nest. They were helpless and hungry all the time and all this mama bird had to do was ruffle her chest feathers and spread out her wings and all the soft, warm, naked little bodies would snuggle in close. No resistance, no back chat, no theories or reasoning and certainly no pushing the limits. Those were idyllic, contained, uncomplicated days. There we were, hanging contentedly in a tree, rocked by gentle breezes.
Of course, there are always one or two (more if you are very lucky) who will try from tiny, to climb to the edge, peer into the horizon with wide eyes and open mouth and pretend to jump and I am like “Do you want to land at the bottom of this tree and sit like a miniature roast chicken for cats or hawks to eat?” It is those very ones, though, who have the big hungry hearts and a beautiful dissatisfaction with the nest and all it’s limitations. They are the ones who shout “fire!” in a battle or “row!” when the waves get choppy. They are also the ones who sing during hard labour. Life’s cheerleaders. These cheeping firecrackers have so much energy that it is difficult for a mama to keep them in check and sometimes she might want to squash them, but she should never do that. They are the ones who have an inkling that there is way more to life than meets the eye and they are starving for it. It might not seem like it, but the nest will not break, it is designed for all who are born into it. Settle in and sing lullabies dear mama birds. This season is a gift.
The nest is a hallowed beginning. It’s a necessary start in life. Warm, soft darkness and a beating heart swishing above fragile newness. This is the time for full bellies and tender touch and nearness. This is when every new mother must understand – this season does not last for eternity, it is over before you know it. Capture it with every one of your senses and keep it in a precious bottle somewhere safe. This is where all the hidden work happens; where wings are fashioned on bodies that have no concept of the sky and voices turn from cheeps of neediness to songs that stop us in our tracks. The day will come when the babes must fly, and all of them will, even the ones who were content in the nest and never once peeped over the edge.
For some, the nest will suddenly be very empty, and then what? I keep hearing how wise it is to be thinking about that season to come before it actually begins. An empty nest is not the end, it’s surely the beginning of what comes next. Don’t panic if you aren’t sure what to do, just lie down and read a book for a while or speed-fly around the block. Inspiration will come, I think. Says me, how would I know, maybe some people who know the drill can leave comments at the end? Until those useful snippets of advice come, something tells me it might be owlish to go outside and stand on a branch with some friends and sing together. Much as you might have longed for the space and quiet, it doesn’t seem like this would be a good time to be alone.
For another, the next load of fragile chicks will be incubating beside her breast whilst her flight-ready chicks take flying leaps off her back. Her beak is chipped and her wings are strong and she needs eyes in the back of her head. Sometimes her sister brings her snacks and strokes her head and then pushes her out for a jaunt while she takes her place for a time. It’s the same nest. It will never be the peaceful haven it was in the early days, but we wouldn’t want that. We are going forwards.
One arty chick, not quite ready to fly, has woven blossoms like bunting across the entrance. Another needs space but still wants to be near and is perched on the carefully woven verandah roof. The few with growing pains are eternally hungry and have decided to hang some biltong worms on an outside twig for midnight snacks. This nest of ours has weathered the seasons. It has evolved and transformed. It’s imperfect, unrestrained and complicated now that we have teenagers who know so much more than we do. It’s noisy and untidy and the little ones poop in it, but this is our nest and the aim is that one day it will be empty. Until then, I am working at being unruffled and present; cool, calm and connected. One day this will be the season I look back on fondly. “There we were,” I’ll say, “hanging like a pulsing disco ball in a tree, not one of the babies asleep.”
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