Building Nests

I stumbled on a bird’s nest a few weeks ago. It was built just below eye level, perched in a small tree, and beautifully woven together holding three blue vibrant eggs with brown speckles. Last week, I went back to look and there was only one intact egg remaining—the other was smashed—and the third presumably taken by a hungry passerby. The mother bird was nowhere to be seen. 

Days later, in a thunderstorm, a massive branch broke off from another tree in the yard. In the rubble on the ground I found a half built nest—in the middle of the weave—not yet strong enough to hold eggs, but still exhibiting a sweet potential, if it weren’t for the collapse of its support.

I too have been building nests lately—bees nests. For those of you that follow Floral Overtones on instagram, you’ve been witness to my journey of gathering equipment, painting, location scouting, and preparing a site for an apiary. There are no bees in my hives yet but the space already feels electric to me—brimming with potential. I find myself wanting to be close to the apiary, wandering down there multiple times a day just to sit and observe. 

Interestingly, the root of the word nest is sed which means “to sit.” 

With all these nests popping up in my consciousness lately, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time pondering them. What is the driving force, instinct, or impulse behind nest building? What compels humans to nest in a certain place? How do birds select the tree or branch that will support their nest? What happens when things don’t go as planned? Do we redirect our energy and build again?

Is nest building a precursor for giving life to anything? Be it a baby bird, and apiary, or an idea? Just like a bird carefully selects sticks to create a structure to hold new life, isn’t everything we bring to fruition built in a similar fashion—one stick or one step at a time?

And further, is our whole life just an act of nest building? Of midwifery? Are we here collecting and weaving proverbial sticks together in support of more life, or new life? To welcome new beings and new parts of ourselves propelling creation and the expansion of consciousness? Would it be helpful for us to consider this perspective before choosing, collecting, and weaving with our next stick? Could adopting this viewpoint help us be more intentional in our actions? And potentially prevent us from making destructive choices? Or could this inspire us to turn down the mental chatter, learn from the birds, and tune into our instincts—our innate intelligence?

Unfortunately, I don’t yet have a concise way to wrap up my musings on nests. However, I’d like to leave you with one last idea: All of the bird nests I’ve come across, in whatever stage of togetherness or ruin, have an inherent beauty about them— a tenderness that makes you go “awwww.” Even finding a few intentionally woven branches perched in a tree is enough to delight. Could it be that whatever we build, if we build from the impulse or intention of supporting and welcoming another life, we’re contributing to beauty in the world?

Xx

Ashley

I couldn’t write about nests without mentioning the work of Clare Ross. Clare is a photographer who works with birds nests—my favorite work of hers involves deconstructing nests. Here’s a deconstructed wren’s nest, here’s a deconstructed hummingbird nest.