My bird feeder and birdhouse game is lacking. The Eastern bluebird male and female pair are no longer okay with a seedy motel—they want the Taj Mahal.
I see them perched on the janky, wire-mesh-bottomed hanging thing I made, propped on the shepherd’s hook. Their sideways looks and disapproving little head shakes tell me all I need to know. I’m falling short. And if they’re going to stick around—if they’re going to bring their precious babes into the world on our property—I need to do better.
Fine by me.
I’m getting a proper bluebird house, one with the correct hole size they require, mounted on a sturdy wooden post embedded in the ground. It needs to withstand these storms, like the one earlier today that bordered on tornado-level.
I also need more feeders. More seed. Variety. Options. A whole world just for them.
I’m in talks with a friend nearby who knows the ropes. For instance, the house opening has to face east. Why? I haven’t a clue. Apparently, they just like it.
I also have an order for an ultrasound of my throat. I’m so relieved to be on the path toward answers. Even if it turns out to be nothing—or something very much something—just closing that door once and for all makes me giddy.
It’s been far too long with this pebble in my shoe, and however much I can’t quite imagine what it will be like to have it gone, I can’t freaking wait.
I am still feeling slightly overwhelmed. Our dentist appointment was canceled due to the storms, I missed a counseling appointment, and—unknown to me—I missed our little kitty’s spay appointment (even though the humane society never told me).
I’m working on taking things one at a time, but it sometimes feels like there are balls I’m juggling that are invisible, and I’m certain they’re about to smash at my feet.
And also… it doesn’t feel that way.
Back to the mindful minutes I’ve been taking: a calm body calms my mind. This isn’t the first time things have felt twisty and extra, like there’s some race I’m late to and need to hurry up and get to—and if I don’t, I’ll lose.
Ooh. That last one hits home.
Life as a race. The hurry-up-to-slow-down. The need to get ahead, to be somewhere, to get back, all for some purpose. Some reason. Until it goes on and on and I begin to believe, erroneously, that that was life all along.
In purging Google Photos, I’ve been watching old videos. Evelyn as a baby. Evelyn as a toddler.
The sense of newness, wonder, and fun is so powerful as I watch them. So silly, too. And I can’t say I’ve lost that exactly, but comparing then to now, I see a dimming of it. And this sense that I need to hurry somewhere, only to do it again and again.
But when I drop it—when I plop down on the ground and unfasten my once tightly held grip—there’s something else there. Something else to learn and grow in.
I don’t quite know what it is yet.
But I want to.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 