Robins moved in when hosting was out
Surprise visitors added music, wonder to a quiet summer
This is the first part in a series covering the temporary nature of home. Most places we reside won’t last forever, making our only “forever homes” our minds and souls. I’m exploring the ways we live within and respect our temporary homes as they evolve. Home may be our cities, countries, places we find shelter, and our bodies. All of them change over time, and each will play an important role in our stories.
One evening last summer, I walked by our peach tree around sunset, looked up through the branches that were backlit by the orange sky, and saw a robins’ nest. Not expecting anything to happen, I clapped my hands and three baby birds stretched upward, their faces pointing to the sky, their tiny beaks wide open, their voices fluttering a wild melody.
I’m not sure how much they could see at that time; they were probably hoping the sound of my hands was one of their parents coming back with food, as robin moms and dads do all day long once their eggs are hatched.
I’d never seen baby birds that close before. If someone had been around and expressed their excitement out loud, I’m sure I would have been speechless in return. I thought that maybe eggs had been laid, or maybe the nest had been a home for birds I never witnessed, but I didn’t expect to see those little faces. I was able to take pictures and a short video on my phone, and for the next couple of weeks, I watched the birds closely with binoculars from various parts of our yard and snapped photos using a long lens.
During a year when only a few people were able to visit us, and when every other type of hosting event couldn’t be planned, robins created a temporary home in our backyard and brightened a part of my quiet 2020 world.
Sometimes I got to see the adult robins feed the babies. Other times, I saw the parents sitting on top of, guarding, and nurturing the nestlings. After that first sunset night, there wasn’t a day I could get as close again. Twice when I tried, one of the adult robins was always near, watching me and chirping from our fence. Both times they flew over my head and on to the roof above me, clearly telling me to go away. I listened to them – screaming – as I darted toward our back patio.
I had no intention of touching the birds or trying to scare them. I just wanted to see them. For a couple of short weeks before the fledglings were able to hop out of the nest and fly away, I looked for them every day. I’d hear them through an open dining room window and their songs would chime like a trio of flutes nearly every 20 minutes.
They lived in the tree around the time our peaches started to ripen – what a perfect, beautiful place to make a home! It smelled like fruit, had peaches for hanging decorations, and droopy green leaves for shade.
I didn’t see the them leave, but one day the family was gone. I’d read all about the cycle of newly hatched robins online and I knew I wouldn’t have much time with them. While I did, it was pretty magical.
* * * *
The weekend before we started working from home last year, we planned a board game night with one of my friends, however, everything revolving around COVID-19 startled spiraling. The grocery stores were empty and the news covered all aspects of social distancing. My friend ended up cancelling, saying she’d read that the following two weeks would be the most important in terms of trying to flatten the curve. I respected her wishes of course, but was still very confused about what was happening in our world.
Travis and I hung out on our own at home because our other plan that weekend – the Banff Film Festival – was also cancelled like everything else. I made a huge pot of chili as my only end-of-the-world preparation and froze it in plastic containers. I have pictures of Travis and I sitting on the floor playing with Lego sets. Two days later, our home’s doors were essentially closed for most visitors for more than a year. It wasn’t long before we were tired of the chili and I wished we could make a big pot of something else to feed a table full of people instead of a table for two.
During those first overwhelming weeks when life changed suddenly, I watched spring unfold in a different way. It was cloudy, rainy, and windy. I watched birds land in our grass, pick at the ground, and fly away in groups when we’d open our sliding door. On walks, I’d notice the blossoms like I always do every March and April. There is a house around the corner that had a lilac bush billowing over a wooden fence and we could smell it’s wonderful fragrance from nearly a block away. One day at a nearby park, I stood beneath and looked up a tree at purple blossoms and heard bees buzzing wildly. It reminded me that the world was still busy in some ways.
* * * *
Last year was isolating for me, as it was for many others around the globe. It will take a while to process everything that happened. As of late, I’ve been processing our home and how we weren’t able to share it the way we would have.
During the first few months of staying home, I was asked occasionally what house projects we had going because others found purpose and discovered hobbies that way as they passed time at home. We – especially I – had next to none.
It felt so strange and exhausting just going to the grocery store that I had no additional motivation to shop at Lowe’s. I didn’t buy flowers to plant until June, when I usually try to get them in May. There weren’t many choices by summer, but I brought home some beautiful bright pink vincas and didn’t plant them until July. The weeds slowly grew around the edges of our property and the places that were usually filled with flowers looked like eyesores.
When I eventually pulled weeds and made room for the vincas, I processed how something will always grow in spaces left to fend for themselves. Much like my mind, if I didn’t make planting positive seeds a priority, ugliness would take over instead. Our windows got dirty. Spiders crafted webs on our back patio. Roses grew wild and scratched my arms when I finally tried to trim them. Mint that I planted in small pots around our swimming pool got sun scorched.
Other than Travis and our wonderful pets, our house was mostly empty, and it wasn’t because there was a lack of love. However, without the ability to make plans and gather with others, I was often empty, too. I don’t think our worlds are supposed to be so small.
The pandemic showed me everything – kindness, selfishness, joy, love, and pain. It taught me loneliness, even though I wasn’t always lonely. There were points I felt like I was disappearing or that I was being buried beneath something I couldn’t explain. I told a friend last summer that I felt underground.
In spite of living in a new world I’d never wish for, there were glimmers of hope and fun that I remember clearly, like the robins I spied at sunset on a normal evening. They taught me that some parts of life continue in normal, beautiful ways and aren’t interrupted when the rest of the world flips upside down. Families and friendships can continue to form and grow, and homes can expand in ways we don’t expect, even for short periods of time. In addition to welcoming robins in our peach tree, we adopted another dog last summer. She needed a different home and bounded into our lives when so many other things and people felt far away.
* * * *
This year, I’m more motivated. I planted a variety of flowers in a spectrum of colors that remind me of loved ones. There are bright orange impatiens, fuchsia-colored roses, plants with green and red heart leaves, and half a rainbow of petunias. I have mint, basil, and citronella thriving in pots by the swimming pool. Our park strip has been cleared of weeds and we purchased crepe myrtle that will flower through the summer.
We are working on house projects – ready to replace carpet with tile – ready for something new. I have a friend coming to visit next month, and I’ll get to show her flowers I planted that were inspired by one of her favorite colors. Maybe I’ll get to share grape tomatoes I’m growing, and make mojitos for us with the mint.
I listen to the birds more carefully, though I know very little about the different breeds. I mostly love to her them sing. They hop from our yucca to our pinion tree and back again. I saw a few of them bunched together and whistling up high. I wonder if there is a nest I haven’t seen yet balancing on the tallest branches.
* * * *
Our walls and roof were meant to feel warm. They were meant to welcome family and friends and absorb our laughter and deep conversations. Our kitchen was meant to be messy and full of dishes after a good party. When our friends leave for the night, I am meant to fall asleep telling Travis over and over again how much fun the night was (after too many drinks, of course).
Travis and I didn’t buy our house to create a world as tiny as 2020 forced it to be. Since purchasing this home, we’ve enjoyed hosting friends and family for swimming, holidays, parties, board games, and vacations. We bought dishes to make planning large dinners easier. We have 18 chairs, patio seating and a folding table we drag from under the guest bed for Friendsgiving celebrations. We have multiple blow-up mattresses, an extra queen bed, and I love cutting fresh roses from our yard to make bouquets for guests who sleep in it.
A few weeks ago, I saw a robin jumping from branch to branch in our peach tree and I wondered if she’d try making a new nest there. She was more than welcome to – in fact, I hoped she would.
Because to me, one of the many things home means is “welcome.” It envelops calm when needed, and fun and boisterousness when equally needed on a different day. I’m looking forward to the rest of this year when we can open our doors again and let our people in.
Soon we’ll host more than birds while flowers bloom around the yard. We’ll hear splashing in the pool while the smell of pizza and fruit salads drifts through the air. We’ll toast to better days ahead around evening fires in the backyard.
Home will again feel and look like a place where others are welcome. I’m incredibly grateful for that.
