Holding onto hope, having your world rocked, and birds having their nests...

Years ago I had a hand-painted clothing line and one of my designs came with a hang tag that read "Are we holding onto hope, or is it holding onto us?" Lately, I feel like I am drowning in a primordial soup of  John's cancer and its persistent implications, the loss of my father, and my own ongoing, annoying, boring health problems. It is a lonely place, but John and I are in it together and at least we have each other to understand, or try to understand, our personal struggles.

A few days ago, I noticed a bird dive bombing the front door upon my arrival. I glanced in the shrubbery to see if there was a nest tucked into or constructed at the base of one of the bushes on either side of the landing. For his part, John couldn't figure out why a bird flew right past his face every time he went out the front door. James solved the mystery. It was as plain as the nose on our faces. A little wren has woven a lovely cocoon of a nest in the center of my recycled bottle wreath. I have a number of bird houses in my garden just a few feet away, but this little creature chose the entrance to our home to create hers. Maybe if she hadn't picked the right side of the double doors, the only one we open and close, we would have missed the nest altogether. Worried that the eggs would fall out, or worse, little chicks when they hatch, we carefully lifted the wreath off of the hook and switched it to the stationary door. To my horror the nest was built assuming the door that was it's back wall, back would never change. When I looked the back of the wreath, the nest was completely exposed, like a piece of glass was there to let us look into its world, Except there was no glass, just air.

I think I held my breath as I slid it onto the hook on the opposite door, giving it an ever so gentle yank to make sure it was secure, then checking that the new door ran flush with the wreath. I worried that the bird might not adjust to her shift in real estate, but James assured me that if she could build the nest in the first place, she should have no trouble finding it and making any repairs or reinforcements. 

Vincent Van Gogh loved bird nests and crocus bulbs; to him they were symbols of hope. A few years ago a book traced Vincent's steps to an old house where a drawing of his had just been discovered in a box in the attic. The writer interviewed the townspeople, one of whom recalled his grandfather telling stories of collecting nests for the painter. When Vincent's nephew and namesake was born, the artist made a baby gift a nest from his collection, much to the horror of his sister-in-law. Over the baby's crib hung VanGogh's painting of almond blossoms. After his death his paintings were tucked under beds and stashed in closets in what was to become a boarding house when Vincent's brother died six months later. His sister-in-law is a largely responsible for Vincen't post mortem success for which I am eternally grateful, though I'll bet she threw out the birdnest.

I hope nothing happens to the little family that is emerging on our front door. Life is so precarious, three eggs with paper thin shells, in a nest built into door that opens and shuts. The wren must be exhausted having to draw attention away from her charge, flying frantically, 'look THIS way!' every time someone comes to the door. Although, what snake or rat is going to dare violate a nest built out in the open and frequented by people coming and going. Maybe her choice wasn't so ill conceived after all.

There are several metaphors, I'm sure, but one is obvious. Our little fragile life we work so desperately to preserve and protect, is so out of our control. I imagine myself struggling to build a nest, a safehouse from harm, wearing myself to the breaking point trying to avert disaster. Did I chose this door or did it chose me? No matter. Something beyond me continues to hold my life in palms, tuck me under wings, hide me in clefts, and maybe, as has happened in other seasons of my life, is rocking my world for my own good.