Robin Memories

It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: It would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad. (C.S. Lewis)

I met this young robin four weeks ago early in the morning. It was not yet a strong, mature flyer, but it's egg days were behind it. Among many robin's egg facts, a few cling to me. Once this summer I glimpsed a mother robin hopping up on the edge of her nest to gently turn the eggs it held. This turning is essential to keep the eggs evenly warm and to prevent the developing babies from sticking to their shells. Egg tending requires more than just sitting. When the sitting is over, that same mother robin leaves space and time for the young one inside to peck its way out unaided. This hatching can take an entire day. Getting from one's hatching out to a position beyond the nest like the young robin I encountered has its many steps too. Recalling a young robin on the pavement, I envision that bird high against the sky now.

In the egg, C.S. Lewis saw a reflection of all of us, our ideas, dreams, plans, potential. It is easy to give up on a hope we have nurtured. Rarely does anything happen as quickly, smoothly, or easily as we would like. En route, we are tempted to remain safely in process forever, never having to test out if what we want or are working on can actually take flight. When I look up at the empty nest on the front of my house this fall and through the winter, I'm going to keep track of what it is I would like to unleash in my life and then be mindful of the many steps to be taken before the vulnerable moment when it comes to be or not. The nest is a humble nudge toward risk, growth, and perhaps even future flight.

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Field Lessons

Trappist monk Thomas Merton once wrote: “Forest and field, sun and wind and sky, earth and water, all speak the same silent language, reminding the monk that he is here to develop like the things that grow all around him.” For Merton and many others, the huge panorama of creation of which we are a part is filled with steady, sometimes surprising teachers. This is the fourth spring I've watched the fields that spread in all directions from my home enter their seasons of fruitful planting, growth, and harvest. Planting isn't determined by a specific date on the calendar. The temperature of the soil has to warm enough. The condition of the soil needs to be right. And rain-soaked fields that haven't drained adequately aren't ready for planting.

We've had lots of rain lately. Pausing by this watery corner of the field west of my home, I thought about how much the fields have to teach concerning pace and process. Planting can't happen in March to gain a head start on the season. Time must be taken to tend and care for the soil that will receive the seeds. There is no rushing a wet field.

Many spiritual programs emphasize they are process not product oriented. Their focus is drawn toward the journey rather than the destination or endpoint. I pay attention to the fields when I am tempted to shortchange process or speed up journey. As it is with the fields, so it is with us. Preparation for our growth is critical. We are wise to respect circumstances outside of our control. Sane timing asks to be honored. In her new book Grounded, Diana Butler Bass claims there is a primary relatedness between the soil and our souls. Listening with the fields close by me, I couldn't agree more.

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