Nest Watcher

Nest Watcher

I.

Blackbird struts into my yard:
cocky, arrogant, a delinquent breaking curfew,
breaking law, ready to break an egg or mother’s heart
yellow eyes full with nefarious intent
glow against iridescent head feathers

Father robin positions himself
between Blackbird and Mother robin
who sits on throne of daily turned, warm, ready eggs

I (who have watched the nest building,
the laborious laying of four indescribably blue eggs,
the patient vigilant incubation)
am sickened when a gang of hungry
invincible blackbirds joins the first

Running into the yard I clap and shout
and scare off the predators
they take flight, fleeing the scene
in clumsy reverse of choreographed confetti

Inside I worry that I’ll not have the fortitude,
or time, freedom, omnipresence or unthwartable maternal love
to keep vigil over this nest
I worry that the robins cannot go it alone

A cliché in cross stitch, hanging beside my front door
temporarily comforts: God watches over every nest.


II.

Later that week the hatchlings are born
pink fresh like a spring peony,
as delicate and vulnerable
I’m elated, a viable successful midwife to birds
Mother and Father robin appear
anthropomorphically and really proud

The Blackbird returns

Alerted by Mother and Father robins’ squawks,
I catch Blackbird looming large on nest edge
hunched to dine and dash
air breaks with the swoop of black wings
and the nest is full of emptiness

Where are you Nest Watcher?
my soul screams already maddened, jaded, cynical from
middle aged, never-hatched, personal disappointments
and losses illuminated by the sight of soft
grass and hair with not an egg to tuft


III.

It is quiet and feather free at my front door
the robin parents are gone

From the Alberta pine I remove the abandoned nest
which is well made, a piece of natural art in my hands
I set the nest on my fireplace mantle
and remember the robins, Blackbird

For a second I want to shake a fist
at the Nest Watcher, but
my infuriation at the watcher’s impotence has mellowed,
crashed into the acquiescence of acceptance

I pour a cup of coffee
and sit in my favorite chair to consider the intricacies of
nest watching (and the food chain)

A familiar grackle pierces my ponderings
I look out the window
There is Blackbird
bending over nest with squirmy meal hanging out of beak

For the first time I wonder who it is who watches
Blackbird’s Nest

A Father's Love

Father's Day is this Sunday.

This holiday is joyful for some; and can be difficult for others. On this day we mourn the fathers we have lost to death. We mourn the fathers some of us never had because of their physical absence or their absence due to alcoholism or workaholism. We celebrate the ways we were loved by dads who played catch with us, read us bedtime stories, wrestled with us on the carpet in our family rooms.

Whether you're celebrating or mourning this Sunday, receive the following letter as a gift of grace and truth:

Dearest One,

You are fearfully and wonderfully made. You are mine. I call you by my name. I love you with an everlasting love.

I see you. I know you; and I care about even the tiniest details of your life. When times are tough, know that I know. Know that I am collecting your tears in a bottle.

When times are good, I rejoice and celebrate your successes along with the angels in heaven. You matter to me.

You are the reason I hung the stars in place, made halibut and hummingbirds, seals and sunsets, meadows and the moon.

I am vast and wondrous and wise. I am also close to you, watching each and every step you take, present to you morning, noon and night. Trust my love for you. Know that I am always near, as close as your breath as constant as your heartbeat.

Trust that I know what’s best for you and that I’ll work everything in your life together for good. I’m a master planner, just like a good quilter who knows just where to put each piece: the light and the dark, the rough and the smooth.

Most importantly, know that you are the apple of my eye, the joy of my heart. Nothing I desire compares with you.

I love you!

Your father,

God

Two Poems on a Sunday

love
In church last Sunday our worship leader placed crayons and paper at the end of each row. He invited us to draw a picture or write a poem about forgiveness. The first poem came quickly like my second child. The next followed as if it were a tenacious twin. I'm not sure if the poems are related. But, I offer them - together - here.

Forgiveness

It takes longer than a day
Process: wheel turning on the
cracked, broken and bumpy
waylaid road of my soul

I give to him a gift of quenching
Freedom that washes away
control, rage that burned like
a forest fire in our family room

Quenching, slaking, washing away
the wild, circling, bitter helix of
familial sin

Releasing him and daily, surreptitiously
freeing
me


Oil

Gladness dripping down my
forehead like nectar of ripe
tangerine in summer:
sweet and sticky, fresh with
life and blessing
seal and expectation

In purse or pocket warmed
by body heat, waiting to
salve an open sore or
scarred wound with the ointment
of joy which comes

in the mourning


Lord, thank you for forgiving us. Be with all of who who daily offer the gift of forgiveness to those who have hurt us . . . to those we love. Bestow your healing, hope and help. Amen.

Write-to-Publish Conference

LOVE
I'm just back from Write-to-Publish, a conference for writers held at Wheaton College in Illinois. There, I spoke on a panel titled The Writing Life; and taught two classes (poetry and co-authoring). CDs of these and numerous other informative and inspiring classes are available for purchase at http://www.writetopublish.com/.

After a year of fallow ground (writing & submitting poetry, revising old manuscripts, doodling in my journal, crafting new queries, mourning, waiting, hoping), Write-to-Publish has geared me up to start writing seriously - dare I say zealously - again. I returned to my Writing Room brimming with creative ideas, instilled with a renewed sense of commitment to my craft.

As I caught up on e-mail correspondence and a few of my favorite Writer's Almanacs, I stumbled upon a quote from Turkish author (winner of the Nobel prize in literature), Orhan Pamuk. He says, "For me, a good day is a day like any other, when I have written one page well. Except for the hours I spend writing, life seems to me to be flawed, deficient, and senseless."

The voracious writer in me resonates with this statement. But, the mom, friend, daughter, sister, and woman of prayer in me is almost repulsed by it. As I enter back into a disciplined writing regime, I want to take my season of fallow ground with me. I want to embrace sunsets and good glasses of wine and bedtime stories with my children. I long for the satisfaction of one page well written. More importantly, though, I want to honor God with a life well lived in service and love, in sacrifice and celebration.

A poem I wrote for one of my friends this summer comes to mind. A breeze rushed in through the window by my writing desk, refreshing my face as I re-read it this morning. Perhaps the poem was given for me, and all of my new aspiring writer friends from WTP:


Butterfly Wishes

Be free to fly and rest
like she does, unencumbered by agenda
and deadline or public opinion

Let the Wind blow you from
one sticky gold, crimson or
cornflower blue stamen to the next

Drink in Sweet as you do your long
curly proboscised work
with Grace and Intuition

Be yourself in full, colorful, feminine
creativity: embracing Process
and summer days, the Organic Way

Then, when your wings are tattered edged
unable to ride Wind as easily, readily
as on the day they dried

Flutter down to tree shaded ground
where it's cool and green
and safe

Sleep there
surrounded by the colors of
divine cross-pollination


Blessings on all of you who received prayer and information and good words at Write-to-Publish!