When we moved into our house in June, there were two nests in the eaves. Even though the contractor and the architect said to get rid of them, I haven't had the heart yet. Somehow they seemed a symbol of building, of landing, of making a new life.
We are finally almost settled, just in time for kids to leave for college. I have been nesting all summer: unpacking boxes, moving things from here to there, finding space I didn't know I had. It has felt like a homecoming unlike any other I have experienced. The same has been true in my writing--for the first time in my creative life, I have my own desk where I can make a mess and leave it for morning and no one minds.
The novelist J. Courtney Sullivan said recently that, "When you write fiction you're like a bird making a nest." So too with being a mother, with feathering a nest.
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