BLUEBIRD TEXT

In the barren dry brownness of late February I received a text from granddaughter, Claire. I covet texts from any of my grandchildren. When younger we enjoyed bountiful beach days, roundabout meadow walks, and frosty winter afternoons with sticky, doughy cookie cutters. Now my empty nest seems more often filled with a lonely unsettledness as they grow into happy, adjusted and well, very busy, teenagers. That’s why I covet their texts: giving me a morsel of their sweetness, a glimpse of delight I can savor.

Claire texted me as she was returning from a Winter Break mission trip to tornado ravaged Alabama. “I’m on the drive home, just saw a bluebird and a marshy area with some little critters in it. Thought of you and how you would put it in your blog and wanted you to know.”

A bluebird in February! A February pretty much devoid of intense white snow and contrasting deep sapphire skies. I thought of Mary Oliver writing about Snow Geese, “hold my breath/as we do/sometimes/to stop time/when something wonderful/has touched us.” (Why I Wake Early, P.34)

My Mimi Memories washed over me as I remembered other birds I had shared with my grandchildren: Of course they all know about my favorite, the chickadee, but there was also Gus, the silly wild turkey in our suburban backyard, Rufus (and now Rufatina) the powerful red tailed hawks hunting in the ravine, and how about the Bald Eagle which had swooped down the beach scaring the smallest grandchild? And I remember taking some of the grandchildren with my friends who set up bluebird boxes in a county park and were tallying sightings. No bluebirds that day, but we did see a fluffy pink nest instead.

Now a bluebird. Mingling, meandering into the moment. Gracing it with goodness. My nest was no longer empty.