The scarlet thread....

Ever since childhood, I have always been grateful for the sounds of the small birds in the early spring.  All of these sweet small  voices, gathered in hedge rows, singing like a jazz choir,  replacing the sound of the wind and the rain. Their sounds like sharp shards of colored glass. 

As a small child, I was very curious about this subtle change in the sound scape. What is this? The delight of the beginner's mind.  I think there must have been endless questions about this phenomenon, as my mother was drawn in by my curiosity. She would wonder too. She would pretend in that moment that she didn't know either.  We would go to the morning window and with the sunlight on our faces, search the bushes in the yard. I can remember the small heads of the birds that we spotted, slightly raised to the sky as they opened their small mouths and wailed their one good song...over and over.

 My mother carried the names of everything. She had the names of the birds the same way she always had the names of the flowers....effortlessly, these marvelous words would spill out of her mouth. She would tell me what the birds ate and where they would find water to drink. She would explain how the unique sounds would tell one bird where the other bird was living. How they just knew that it was time to make a small home to accommodate their babies, the same way they knew to have a drink from a dew drop on a leaf or exactly where to poke a hole in the ground for a big juicy worm. And when they had assessed the conditions that were just right for them, a nest would be constructed.

What! Not only could they sing and communicate...live on worms and bugs and drink dew....they could construct a perfect home. As a child, this seemed like such a lot of things to do. I really wanted to lend a hand. An anonymous act of kindness. Just a little help to free of up their precious time for a little rest.

 I had decided the front porch was the perfect place to arrange an assortment of building supplies for their nests. It could be seen from the large chestnut tree in the front yard. If they chose this tree, I could climb up and peek at the nest, or wait patiently underneath it for the small bits of sky blue shell to appear.

My mother and I would lay small gifts to the birds on the iron railing on the front porch. We would leave out small bits of cotton, balls of fluffy things....soft bits of cloth we had found and prepared in the house. I imagined I could see the surprise in the birds flapping wings and hurried flight, as he retrieved the treasures.



I would always add a piece of red yarn to the building supplies. If I found the nest in the chestnut tree....how joyful would it be to find the small red thread woven mindfully into a nest by a small yellow beak. It would be fine if I was not able to locate the exact nest that used my very special piece of scarlet thread. I would always have the image in my mind of this nest, somewhere in the forest, cradling the fragile featherless bird who would soon grace our yard.

I climbed a lot of trees as a child. In my life time, I have found and carefully wrapped many small blue pieces of robin eggs shells in paper and carried them home to place on my altar.

Nests have always been about my short precious time with my mother. The scarlet thread that was carefully placed ..... in my hand from my mother's hand.

Norma