For several weeks, a pair of robins have been building a nest in the eaves of our back porch, and more recently sharing spells of sitting on three lovely blue eggs within its cozy confines. When the mother is on the nest, the father oftens sits calmy on the back of a chair, and listens to me speak to him from six feet away in the doorway. Both seemed to accept my presence with growing calm and trust.
Around twilight, as I finished mowing the grass with our old manual push mower, a neighbor stopped by to chat. We had discussed exchanging phone numbers for mutual aid as we are both away from home at times, and when he handed me his card I beckoned him into the back yard so I could write down my data for him.
On the back porch, I motioned him to a chair, and offered him a beer, which he welcomed. We chatted about real estate, local and national politics, and the economy for a while. I pointed out the nest to him, and we noted the nervousness of the birds as they attempted to light on the nest, but seemed intimidated by our presence and kept retreating to nearby roosts in the trees.
The nest is often left untended for periods, so I was not overly concerned, thinking we would soon end our conversation and my visitor would depart. But he stayed as I became concerned about the disruption to the nesting arrangement - I don't know why I didn't speak up or take action.
When I finally did stand up and suggest by doing so that it was time to part company, I noted that dusk had deepened to near darkness. I peered into the eaves and saw that the nest was untended. After escorting the neighbor to the gate I hurried back, a little alarmed. I turned on a bright light on the back of the house to illuminate the porch and went inside, returning nervously to observe the nest every five or ten minutes.
No birds. The back yard, normally alive with the calls of the robins and other birds was absolutely still and completely dark except for the harsh light from the seldom-used fixture on the back of the house.
A sense of dread, horror, and remorse overwhelmed me. What if they could not orient themselves in the unfamiliar darkness? Had they gone off to roost in a tree, imobilized by nightfall, unable to return for the care their instincts demanded? I imagined that the little pale blue eggs would lose their viability by morning - already the evening was cooling rapidly. I thought about my past ambivelence on the abortion of human embryos, and wondered at the sense of tragedy that I now associated with the tiny birds that might not emerge. I wondered how I could have been so insensitive to the pair of robins as they nervously attempted to alight on the nest while we droned on with self-importance, oblivious to their distress. Could one beer really cause such a void of mindfullness? So there is a reason avoidance of alcohol is one of the Buddhist precepts, even for lay people...
I spent about an hour coming to grips with the inevitability of this small but powerful tragedy playing out in my back yard and mind, and my culpability. Another of life's painful but valuable lessons, delivered to address some deficiency in character or balance some karmic debt.
Again I returned to the back porch to gaze mournfully at the empty nest. The call of a robin startled me from the darkness of the row of trees beyond the pool of light where I stood. I spoke to it, beckoning, and stepped back inside. A few minutes later, I returned once more to the doorway.
She was in her nest.
I turned off the bright light, and came downstairs to write this, my prayer answered.
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