In the Cottonwoods behind the house where I am staying is a large bundle of sticks and debris. I mean large—probably 3 feet across. It has been added to over the last couple of years, and until something happens like a windstorm coming through, it will continue to grow. On a calm evening you can see the residents—a pair of Bald Eagles, sitting calmly in adjacent branches. It won’t be long before there are eggs and little ones to feed.
We’re looking for a nest. I’m in Washington state and Karisse is in New Mexico. She joins me in May. Our nest is on the market in Silver City, and we’re in the market here. Discussion of our nest occupies much of our time on the phone with one another. We’re constantly surfing the internet for options. We need our house in New Mexico to sell, but if we find something we can’t live without here maybe we can squeeze through for several months…the bottom line is, our nest is stirred up. A windstorm has come through.
Another part of it all is what we put in our nests. Like the eagles, we seem to add to it each year, in spite of ourselves. Getting rid of stuff is hard work. Sometimes the decisions involve the augury of trying to predict whether or not in some unknown distant time you won’t really need it, and kick yourself for having gotten rid of it. The easy thing, of course, is just to stash it somewhere and forget about it. Most likely, when you do want it you won’t remember where you put it and you’ll go out and buy another one…and so the mess mounts, reproducing in the darkness of our forgetteries. Windstorms are often blessings in disguise.
Nests and Windstorms, stability and change, standing and walking, the two great principles of living in time, all caught up in where I’m gonna lay my head when it’s all said and done. Here we hang, caught in the middle of existing.