Such an amazing time. I say this having sat opposite my future son-in-law one recent evening, enjoying his full laughter after I read from my journal something Victoria said at age six that just had to be shared. (Moms of little ones, write things down.) I say this having received today my final paycheck from the nonprofit job I took a little more than two years ago. (Now I’m really nonprofit.)
I say this having jotted thoughts today in my notebook about dear, Old Testament Job (whose name, I’ve learned, may have been shortened from Jobab) and then having written in my essay-in-progress about biking along the still winter-wide river one unseasonably warm morning (last week). “I pick out the notes of finches. Gentle airstreams carry a rose garden’s fragrance.” We’ll see if those sentences remain intact or get edited away. Either way, I am working in the fields where I most yearn to labor. Finally, once more.
And so my blogging frequency may take a nosedive. As happens periodically, anyway. Before I flit off into my own writing and a certain wedding-approaches land, I wanted to let you know how our finch family fares.
Wifey has taken seriously her new role as mama finch. A couple weeks after she settled in, we spied the first nascent face. A tiny nestling.
Both parents share their duty, though I’ve only seen mama feed the brood and then sit on them. Papa goes off to rest somewhere. He spends other time periods chirping his vigilance, and then he returns with more for the hungry.
I think there are three. Growing, in bird fashion, swiftly. Receiving their ministrations, their sitting-upons, their first experiences of changeable weather (yesterday, thunder and raucous wind). They don’t know they are leaving me much to ponder, food for my essays. They will simply do what they’re interested in, what happens no matter how long a particular fledgling may take in creation to do so. They will test the warmest breezes, and they will fly.