THERE’S SO MUCH.

To write can mean peeling away layers slowly, carefully so as to avoid tearing the thin skin of our outer selves. To write can also mean taking an armful of messy, poorly-balanced thoughts and throwing them onto paper before they drop. Both approaches can have a certain beauty. Sometimes, neither approach does. And in our world today, it feels as though there is so, so much to write about, whether gently or in hurling fashion. Which leads me to a sense of paralysis, where my thoughts race while my words screech to a halt. What can I say? How do I say it? What are the chances that my balanced left/right brain self will alienate everyone on all sides? (The answer to that last question is – HIGH. Chances are HIGH.)

So…when in doubt…birds.

I love birds. I always have. I love them for their existence in nature, in spiritual meaning, in physical presence, in song, in personality. So, while all of our brains are spinning in whichever way yours might be spinning, I will tell you a story about birds.

On the edge of my bathtub, a sacred nightly space for me, sits a very inexpensive ceramic figurine of two chickadees on a branch. These two birds have lived in my home for more than 15 years, but have been a part of my world as long as I can remember, thanks to my grandmother.

A mere six months after I was born in Oak Cliff, Texas (just south of Dallas), my parents packed us up and headed to Southern California, the first of many job-related moves that would characterize my childhood. Growing up in a fairly nomadic family, I did not have a physical “home” in the way many children do. My parents, loyal Texans that they are, maintained that Dallas was HOME. We were always “Texans in [fill in the current state/country]” and that was that. Therefore, “home” was split between our grandparents’ houses in Oak Cliff.

My two sets of grandparents lived a very short distance apart, and our trips home to Texas involved sleeping at both houses by turns. Each held its own particular allure for us as children, a subject I could go on and on about with great sentimentality.  For the purposes of this story, I’ll restrain myself (you’re welcome) and stick to my paternal grandparents’ house on Perryton Drive. Their 1950s home had two bedrooms and about 1300 square feet; sleeping an additional five people took creativity and a “camping out” mentality. The front door opened directly into a formal living and dining, and the opening from one to the next featured cool geometric shelves on either side. On those shelves sat what we would call “special things” – small decorative items my grandmother loved. There wasn’t anything of great value, looking back, but they were all special to her and therefore off limits to us. The exception was the aforementioned ceramic chickadees.

For reasons unknown, I loved those from the time I was a tiny girl. I bunked on the camp cot right next to those shelves (while my older brothers slept luxuriously on the pullout couch), and perhaps as a goodwill gesture, Grandmother would let me play with the chickadees. I have drowsy-edged memories of snuggling on the cot in the dark, a distant murmur of adult voices and occasional kitchen sounds in the background, my imagination running free as I moved the chickadees from shelf to cot and back. Those birds were my friends, and when Grandmother finally left us at 93 years old, they came to nest in my home. They’ve survived several moves – barely (thank goodness for super glue). I think in many ways, they represent for me the strange mix of tenacity, beauty, specificity, adaptability, freedom, and risk that life requires.

Fast forward a few years to last summer. Having experienced a series of extreme lows and highs in a scant few months’ stretch, our hearts were all a bit tender. I had never really discussed my love of birds with my husband, in all honesty. I simply held it in my heart, knowing that he lives there as well and would therefore understand. While I was out of town one weekend, he rearranged our bedroom so that our chairs faced the large window that looked out into our courtyard-like backyard and fountain. He then proceeded to pull together what was essentially a bird sanctuary. He considered the existing placement of trees and water features, then added plantings and several feeders with different seed to attract the songbirds I love. That window became our favorite place to be. It was slow going at first, with a few fairly disinterested house finches flying by briefly but never staying. Until one day, when my husband called me urgently but quietly to come to the window. There, on a branch next to one of the feeders, was our first real customer: a Carolina chickadee.

I had never seen an actual, live chickadee up close like that. I was riveted as he hopped from the branch to the feeder, picking through his options until he found the safflower. I held my breath, willing him to stay so I could study his tiny, perfect form and coloring.  He obliged for a moment; then, seed in mouth, he took off for the woods behind our house, with his distinctive waving flight pattern. I realized I was still holding my breath and turned to my husband. “Did you see that? It was a chickadee! Our first bird is a chickadee!”

It was one of those moments when I felt utterly and completely loved. Loved by my grandmother many years before. Loved by my mother, who made sure those chickadees came to me. Loved by my husband, whose heart was struggling to heal from the grief of losing his father, but still considered me. Loved by God, who so often uses birds in the Bible and in nature to paint a picture of His love and care for us.

It was less than a year later that we sold that house and moved to our current home. A part of me was devastated to leave that sweet window.  We had amassed a diverse population of birds, all precious to watch. It was no longer a sanctuary just for birds. It was my sanctuary, too. But when we came to see our current house for the first time, we were greeted by a robin’s beautiful song. We stepped onto the patio in time to see her singing away in a mountain laurel before taking flight. I looked at my husband and he looked back at me, and that was it. A few weeks later, I placed my chickadees on the edge of my new bathtub, and whispered to myself, “Welcome home.”