Nesting  

By Melodye Shore

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
and never stops at all.
Emily Dickinson

Early last spring, I spotted a hummingbird in our grapefruit tree. As she hovered among the branches, her tiny green wings whirred and shimmered in the sunlight. But whenever an intruder ventured near, she zipped around like a fighter jet, dive-bombing and clicking her disapproval.

What was she protecting?

I grabbed a ladder and headed into the backyard to take a closer look. Hidden under an umbrella of glossy green leaves, I found a tiny nest. And look—two tiny eggs were tucked inside! 

The rains came. Tree branches bowed to the wintery winds. Mama Hummingbird shook the water from her soggy feathers and hunkered down. When she wasn’t warming her eggs, she was flitting between the citrus blossoms and a nearby lavender bush, seeking nourishment.  

Two hatchlings emerged from their ivory shells. A few days later, their eyes popped open. Tiny orange beaks pointed upward, they searched the skies for Mama. 

Within a few weeks, the chicks were full grown. Little by little, they inched toward freedom. Now and again, I'd see one of them stretch, ruffle its tail feathers, and poke at its iridescent plumage with a very long beak. The second hummingbird, forced to the very edge of the nest by all the activity, got a wild-eyed look that said, "Mom, she's touching me! Tell her to move over!" Then, just when it seemed one or the other was about ready to topple overboard, they’d both get really still—almost as if to say, "Whoa, that was scary!" But not long afterward, the other one would nudge its partner. "Hey, wanna try that again?"

It seemed for a while as if those baby hummingbirds were planning to hunker down until Mama Bird stopped feeding them—or until they tumbled out the sides of their overstretched home. I loved watching them nap and play, but deep down, I realized their long-term survival depended on their ability to fly. Eventually, one of the hatchlings did just that. The other one lingered in the nest until Mother Nature took her where her tiny wings could not.

Those beautiful little birds came to symbolize the seasons of joy and loss that followed. One of my sons fell in love, and the other one flew off to new adventures. I said final goodbyes to both my parents. My once-tidy backyard bore silent testimony to a long winter of adjustment. Pepper tree seedlings invaded my flower beds. Weeds grew tall while my favorite perennials withered. Glossy gardenia leaves faded to yellow, and my champaca tree dropped all its foliage. A beloved lavender bush finally died for lack of water.

Last spring, my backyard was a safe haven for Mama Hummingbird and her tiny family. And now that the citrus trees are blooming again, I find myself scanning the skies for her return. Tiny forms play tag in the sunshine—could one of them be her? And is that her fledgling I see silhouetted against the silvery evening sky?

And after a season of introspection, I’ve rediscovered my own sanctuary. The world beyond my redwood fence is noisy, unruly…scary at times. Dogs bark, cell phones jangle, and car alarms pierce the quiet night. But in the privacy of my backyard, I am surrounded by simple pleasures and filled with a sense of well-being. It’s my safe haven—a nesting ground for inner peace.  

And perhaps this is the lesson I was meant to learn from the hummingbirds. For when I tend to my garden, I feel as if I’m rebuilding my own nest. New plants take root, and I feel reconnected. And as I watch my flowers burst into bloom, my spirits lift and I feel ready again to fly.