The other day my friend, who posts nature photos on her Facebook wall each morn, posted a picture of a mother bird trying to get a four-inch twig into the one-inch hole in a birdhouse.
Nesting, I thought. I can relate to that. It’s my life right now.
My husband and I recently moved to our retirement home on the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri. Let me rephrase that. I moved to our retirement home and left him stuck in a one-bedroom apartment on an Illinois prairie until his retirement date at the end of this month.
Settling hubby into his apartment was easy. I unpacked the dishes, groceries, bathroom items and cleaning supplies while he put his clothes away and arranged his bedroom. With his coworker’s help moving the few pieces of furniture and the two of us carrying up the boxes and putting everything away, the entire task took less than two hours.
I’ve been here two months in our new home, and I’m still nowhere near done.
Granted, my task is much larger. Instead of two scantily-furnished rooms, I’ve a whole house to unpack, forty years of accumulation to sort, decks and porches to power wash and refinish, walls to paint, carpet and flooring to order.
Some days – most, actually – I feel like that mother bird, trying to wedge a four-inch twig through a one-inch hole.
And, I stop and wonder about those birds, nesting.
Do you think they get tired?
Do you think they lament they may never be done?
Do you think they wonder if anyone notices all they’ve accomplished so far?
Then, I stop again and realize that the difference between me and the birds is that when I get this done, this nesting, whether it’s this month or this year, I will be done. Oh, sure, I’ll have paint to touch up from time to time, decks to restain every so often, cleaning to do when it needs it.
Those birds, though, have to start all over again next year, nesting – and preparing for a new brood.
My wee ones have left the nest. I don’t have to do this again every spring. With each new wall painted, each box unpacked, my birdhouse is that much closer to being home.
I guess I’m glad I’m not a bird.
© Ann Tracy Mueller 2012