Nests and Knowing

I found a nest. How many times have I written this opening line? Countless. Why do I find so many nests? Why do I feel compelled to share each time I do?

This time was like every other time.

My son asked if I’d join him to pick grapes and forage for blackberries. We meandered through the garden, picking and eating. (I’m not saying its a good idea to let the blackberry grow wild in the garden, but if you do there is an upside.)

“Let’s head down the back,” I said to him. “I feel like there’s something to find. I wonder what it is.”

I could feel it, that feeling again. The same one I get each time. It is not “I hope I find something” or “maybe I’ll find something”. It is “there IS something”.

We walked and I half-looked. I wasn’t scouring for anything. I wasn’t combing the grass with my eyes. I was just aware; attentive.

We found more blackberries. My son waited in the shade of a tree while I picked, because the barbs on the brambles are vicious, and it really was getting too hot out and there’s only so many assaults you’re willing to take. I joined him and we sat in the long grass, checking for tiny caterpillars before we ate, throwing away the berries that weren’t as ripe as they’d looked and any the birds had pooped on. Foraged food is free, but you’ve still got to work for it.

The berries done, the blackest of the grapes eaten, their greenish leftovers tossed into the bushes, we headed back to the house. In summer I mow a path through the long grass. It looks inviting but also it’s nicer to walk when it has rained, or when we get to damp autumn mornings and you don’t have long wet grass slapping at your bare legs or making your jean bottoms soggy. My son ran the mown track toward home. I found myself leaving the path to wander the long grass under the trees. I’d forgotten about the birds nest, until I looked down and was standing on it.

It was barely discernable, large but flat. This wasn’t a fresh fall. There was grass growing around and slightly through it, but still my eye noticed its out-of-placeness. There was a lot of deep green moss, and moss does not grow in the dusty dry under the cypress trees. It started falling apart as soon as I picked it up. It seemed more like the lining of a nest, all soft and pliable. Maybe that’s why it fell. Like the little pig’s house of straw, it was structurally unsound and couldn’t withstand a blow.

The day before, I had been unpacking my collection of nests. In the kitchen cupboard I came across the very smallest nest I’ve ever found (what was it doing in the kitchen cupboard? I can’t for the life of me remember). I’m pretty confident it is a warehou nest, a silvereye, one of our smallest birds. I like the two of them side by side, big and little. Neat, and kinda messy.

I don’t know why I find nests. I don’t know what is leading me to them, how I know they’re there, or how I end up finding them. I also don’t know why I keep sharing about them.

I’m just on the trail, and I’m following. And maybe that’s it—it’s cool to be on the trail. It’s cool to follow where you feel called, or led. Maybe that’s all we’re ever doing.

In a separate moment together yesterday, my son asked me how he’ll know what to do when he’s older. And I told him—you notice what you love doing, and you do that, and you notice what you feel drawn to next, and you do that. And that’s how life unfolds. You feel something, you trust there’s something to find, you follow the trail. Same-same.