From my home in the foothills of the Appalachian mountains, spring doesn’t so much arrive as sneak. It certainly doesn’t descend all at once like Mary Poppins, full of confidence and industry. It is a coy visitor. It hints with a crocus or daffodil, with a warm sunny day, then retreats behind gray clouds and frost warnings. This shy dance of days frustrates as we long for a full-blown spring of warmth and green. Finally, after a month or more, spring’s teasing relents to the unreserved generosity of all that is lush and vibrant.
One true sign of spring I rely on is the gestation of a family on my front porch. Every year a robin couple in their red-breasted attire finds the corner of the left eve to be prime real estate and in surprisingly short order constructs a sturdy nest, the unused remnants of twine and twigs discarded across the porch for me to sweep away. Then comes the vigil, theirs and mine. I sit at my writing desk and peer out the window. The stern gaze of the bird perched on the nest stares back. There is determination and challenge in those black eyes. Precious cargo rests underneath.
I spend the next few weeks keeping watch on the nest, as if I have a role to play. I observe the ritual changing of the guard. Then one day, my ears catch rapid cheeping sounds. I try to get a hatchling count. Is it three or four? It’s three. No wait, a fourth lies buried in the fluttering of fluffy down. The bird parents fly airdrops of food to greedy mouths that reach up and open in desperate chorus. They grow at a miraculous rate and soon I’m nervous because they push and shove each other, no longer fitting together in what was once a roomy nest. My other worry is that they won’t be brave enough to leave, to take flight. In due course, one by one, they make their way out of the nest and into my azalea bushes.
But there is always that one “failure to launch.” I sense the anxiety in the bird’s flickering eyes. I witness the loneliness of its solitary ramble around the nest. I remember my own abandonment. Constant checking out the window keeps me from my intended tasks. Meanwhile, the unlaunched robin’s family, a blush of parents and siblings, establish life in the bushes and underneath the maple and pear trees. Fledglings hop along, eager to explore and test their new-found wings. The one left behind grips its tiny talons onto the edge of the nest, emitting pitiful peeps. No one comes; no food catering arrives. It’s a tough love parenting practice. One day stretches into the next. Should I intervene? Should I gently use a broom to encourage him or her to take flight? Of course not. I must trust in the wisdom of nature. As with all living creatures, some of us just need a little longer to be sure of the next step, to catch the uplift to flight.
