Two sparrows are building a nest in the eaves right above the patio where John and I take intermissions from our own race to make this new place our home. Although it’s sometimes much too hot for strenuous work, the small birds, at least, remain determined. They swoop low across the lawn, looking for bits of dried grass and twigs, occasionally pulling up roots of plants I just put in the ground. From dawn to dusk, we watch them carry their heavy treasures to the nest in which they’ll raise a family.
This house, this place has increased my understanding of the communal nature of home ownership. We share this little haven with a whole family of foxes, a groundhog, numerous generations of rabbits, deer, chipmunks, and especially birds. In addition to the sparrows above our heads, we have in various trees, pairs of cardinals, bluejays, mocking birds, grackles, mourning doves, robins, and house finches (at least one vulture, too, lives close enough to regularly circle the yard, swooping down to clean the foxes’ inevitable mess) - more birds, I’m sure, that we have yet to identify, but fewer, our neighbors tell us, with every passing year. None of these creatures are simply on their way to somewhere else. They all live here, and we derive endless pleasure getting to know their patterns and their songs.
As the so-called ‘owners’ of this space, we’re feeling keenly the responsibility to ensure that this small piece of land can keep our fellow inhabitants strong and healthy (except the deer, of course, who we secretly wish would find another woods and garden for their nightly feasts). Now and into the treacherous and uncertain future, we want to keep them well and safe as best we can. We are a family after all, and that’s just what families do.
For the sparrows, at least, it’s simple. We’re leaving what seem to be their favorite twigs within an easier reach (everything we’ve offered so far has been taken). In the garden, we’re planting (mostly) flowers that will attract and nourish various bees and butterflies, and bushes that will bear berries for the birds. But we’re still learning. Sometimes when yanking out the invasive honeysuckle that’s strangling our trees, we inadvertently disturb some creature’s secret shelter or trample their potential food. Just yesterday, we destroyed some Pokeweed that, though poisonous to humans, provides food for the very birds that are nesting in our yard. It’s a terrible feeling when you get it wrong. But there is this: in all families, we make mistakes, we ask forgiveness, and promise to do better. Who ever knows if it’s enough?
The news outside the limits of our little world has been especially grim this week - human rights and covenants broken, lives in jeopardy, a country losing its purpose, values and direction - virtually a world on fire. Fighting off the sense that there is nothing I can ever do to make these problems go away, I break off another branch and leave it for the birds.