Robins

The 4:30 p.m. lesson has ended. Now the juvenile robin sits quietly in the sunlit lower branches of the catalpa tree waiting for its next instruction. Every so often it sharpens its beak on the limb beneath it.

Earlier, on the grass outside my bedroom window, the young robin stood observing its father. The older robin cocked its head to the side listening and then jabbed at the damp grass to pull out a fat worm. The younger robin squawked expectantly, until its father broke the worm up into smaller pieces that it could place in its offspring’s gaping mouth.

A quick snap. I didn't want to disturb her.

Directly across from the catalpa, a female robin has chosen the downspout against our house to construct a beautiful nest for her three cyan coloured eggs. For several mornings, she gathered and arranged twigs, mud and grasses—using her breast to firmly press these bits and pieces down. Amazing! She knows that you need the correct ratio of wet/dry materials to build a proper nest. I noticed that she has even woven in a pretty piece of baby blue plastic. Although she is more exposed than if she had nested in a tree, I think she has chosen wisely. It was quite blustery before dawn this morning and her nest weathered it well.

Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here in the suburbs. But then I remember that like the robin who built her fine nest beneath the eaves, I also chose this house. Where the yard is green and peaceful, the leaves on the tall trees tremble, and the peonies and lilacs smell sweet in the spring. This house made of brick where I felt at home and safe enough to bring my own child into this world.

Home

There is a beautiful space inside of me where I dwell. When it is open, I feel as though I am nestled among the stars. Other times, I can hardly stand to be in my own skin. When I take a bath, I often put my head beneath the water and listen to my heartbeat. There it is, thumping away in perfect rhythm. Thump thump. Thump thump.

 
My mother was once my home. I lay protected in her womb. Safe from sounds that startle and words that sting. I listened to her heartbeat. I heard her every breath. Her thoughts ran through my umbilical cord and I knew her every wish. Being born is being wrenched away from comfort and what we know. We are thrust into the unknown.

I listened to my baby’s heart before she was born. It was a strong heartbeat. When I pressed my MP3 to the phone, my mother remarked excitedly, “It sounds like a washing machine!” But my baby’s heart could not sustain her on its own. When I learned this news a cold wind blew through my soul. And, for many months, I suffered in silence. She’s three now. After her bath, she likes to run around naked and is blissfully unaware of the fine white line on her chest. I pray that she will always know just how lovely, beautiful, and amazing she is.

We are a circle, my mother, my daughter, and me. Our hearts tie us together. Like ocean waves crashing on the shore, my mother’s heartbeat fills my ears until her time here is done. My daughter’s amazing heart will beat in her chest for many years to come. And my heart... how long will it go on? How many more days will I lie in my watery bath and hear its steady drum? My beautiful heart—my earthly home?

†I gave this as a gift to my mother for her birthday a few years back along with a glass heart. I’m not sure she appreciated the energy of the piece; but, I like it. It’s intimate and gives voice to some of the pain I’ve experienced surrounding my daughter’s heart surgery. Something I haven’t been able to write much about.