A short while ago, while out walking with the dogs, I discovered a minute nest, woven together with shades of silver, at the foot of a Douglas fir tree. I nearly stepped on it, it blended so well with the winter grasses and streaks of snow. I picked it up, turned it over in my hands, and thought to myself:
“I’ll never make something so delicate, so beautiful, so meaningful as this — no matter how hard I try…”
I wasn’t discouraged.
My spirits were bolstered.
My efforts were made as real as the tiny birds carrying silver strands in their beaks and weaving them so carefully into homes for their downy family.
I pressed the nest into my coat pocket
and kept walking up the mountain.
Sometimes, I think someone is
spinning a perfect, small silver nest
between the twigs that build the framework of my soul.
Sometimes I act like a crazy old human and I tear pieces of it down, or someone takes a moment to do that humble
construction some damage…
but the work goes on.
On and on.
And that might be the most
meaningful thing
ever…or at least the most meaningful
thing I can think of today.
Sometimes, I think someone is
spinning a perfect, small silver nest
between the twigs that build the framework of my soul.
Sometimes I act like a crazy old human and I tear pieces of it down, or someone takes a moment to do that humble
construction some damage…
but the work goes on.
On and on.
And that might be the most
meaningful thing
ever…or at least the most meaningful
thing I can think of today.