I’m building a nest for our mutual fascination, contemplation, and comfort.
It will be my work to construct just the right cup to hold our respected interest.
I would like us to look closely at my particular weave in the hopes that our valuable eggs of time and reflection will hatch a healthy and subsequently edified brood. I will loop and wrap and twist and turn and tug and tie and tamp the muddy mortar of adjectives and nouns with all the right conjunctions that support and protect me and my reader and our personal perspective and insight.
I promise you—though my story may fall short of some well researched tome that illustrates finite points on the construction of nests built by any particular species of bird—I will try to impart the richness of steeped sentiment from an imaginative and curious mind.
A bird’s nest is a piece of work. Maybe in the eye of the beholder it is Art, the higgledy-piggledy catawampus of skewed warp and weft loomed by an articulating beak into a necessary object, unique and yet the same, simple and yet complicated.
I have been halted in the midst of my practiced amblings by the sight of an avian domicile, a nest of distinct necessity and purpose, for, what I can proclaim are, deep subconscious and profoundly relative existential confrontations with my reflective comparative thoughts on humankind’s evolving complicated existence.
Allow a thread of psychology to be placed on my mat of experiential twigs, so to speak. Humans are known for the use of the symbolic. Birds’ nests are the symbol of the parenting of burgeoning life, physical proof that at one time, in that place, that nest, a life, an offspring, had received devoted care and protection. Inarguably, birds’ nests are that evidentiary symbol.
Sometimes I feel that my sentiment, when I see a bird’s nest, is corrupt. I see yet another work by a creature toiling to perpetuate its species, a species with no free will, just an overwhelming laborious drive that mocks the phrase “free as a bird.”
A sentiment that, whereas compared to human beings, viewed through the microcosmic lens, of course, I consider that all avian types live a most difficult existence and are the true bearers of terror by the circumstances of the elements, the predation of disease and other wildlife, sustaining greater mortality numbers among their offspring.
It is easy to get wrapped up in the romanticism of the ritualistic ties of the avian family. Especially when we see such pure fledging directives, unwavering and unmatched or even challenged, when we compare them to human rearing behavior.
But I say that is foolish projection. It is foolish because no tool exists in our psychological quantum toolbox for this sort of figuring or measuring. No amount of documents from the sentiments of Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. or Dr., no amount of she saids and he saids from speculation, no crude incursions with scalpels and electrodes or countless hours of observation can give us a read on what dimension or plane other natural forms of life (other than Homo sapiens) are operating on…. That is simply my complicated opinion.
This is my opinion, my opinion that is built on my fascination with the subject of birds’ nests, the wonder and mysteriousness of them all. The quirky precision of their construction and the cruelty of their necessity transfix me.
I have no doubt that the enticement of nature’s mysteries—in this case birds’ nests, and the pat expression of pragmatism aloft on the wings of anthropomorphic speculative transcendental sentiment—has my thinking flying in circles. For me, knowing the way I think, there is no recovery from this mind-full tailspin.
To you avian kind, I am enamored with your art, your craft, if you will, your nests. Why you lay this over, why you tuck that under, I cry, is fascinating! I am troubled by your plight for survival. I am confounded, as I am with humankind, by your purpose and meaning. I am also glad. I am glad to see you, to hear you, to watch you and to know you are working hard to continue to be here.
To be here as you are while I am here.