Someone’s home. Looked to be newly made. A home. Is that not an innate longing within everyone…to go or be at home, to know home? But which or what home? And somehow the image manages to look somewhat precarious.  As I stared at the nest and thought how often I’ve seen the birds repair and add more twigs, I wondered at what point the original nest actually transforms into an entirely new nest.

Maybe that is the whisper of home. It begins and over the years as we weave new twigs, experiences, and wisdom a new nest emerges. Maybe home means construction. A work in progress. And who is to judge precarious? An innate ability within to create, when left alone seems to know just what to do. There are no maps. No instruction manual. No building inspectors. You let your own instinctive heart choose the twigs and you build. Every day you build. Every day you build or the forces of life will break it down. Every day you build and transform the old, however young it may be, into something new but innately perfect.

There are periods of just sitting. There are periods, sometimes frantic, of feeding your soul. Then there are periods when you step off and without any net leap and trust your heart’s wings.