Lessons From the Nest
by Tracey Rich

Quite possibly, like many of you, I have been in rapture one hundred and forty-five feet off the ground high up in the piney treetops of Big Bear Lake, as if I was part of an eagle family. It has been my happy place for weeks in a world that is head-spinning. It has been my place of peace, and solitude, and pure excitement. It has been thrilling and beautiful to sit atop the world with a bird's-eye objectivity, living the ways of the wild. Nature is a most powerful teacher.

Last year no eggs hatched for eagles Jackie and Shadow in their stately home. A nest which is an absolute architectural wonder. This year, three eggs were laid! I never stray far as I wait a vigil just in case I might be called upon to sit the nest. This is my first online obsession, if you don't count the fat bears of the Great North in Alaska. If you do, then I concede that I must have two magnificent obsessions. I am aware that people spend night and day scrolling through cute pet videos. Ones that I politely dump and never go down that rabbit hole. Who knew this could be a full-time job? Seriously-late-to-the-party, me.

I was there in the nursery that early morning just after the pips (the little holes the babes peck their way into the world through) gave way to two baby eaglets. One baby born, with another following four to five hours later. And then we all watched as their amusing command of their small bodies grew. And we waited again, if not so patiently, to see if egg number three would pip. Sure enough, a third eaglet made its way into the world four to five days later. The sibling rivalry had begun in earnest.

I learned that the female sits the nest the greater portion of the night. That her body is a third larger than that of her spouse. She speaks more and with a deeper voice, and has a more ominous look with a larger, thicker beak. Truthfully, I had learned to identify her knowing none of the above indicators, but by the bead of sap that had stained the right side of her brow. I only came to recognize her after a long and dedicated visual study. The female eagle almost entirely sits the nest in inclement weather, her larger wingspan providing more shelter among other perfections of nature. I watched as the couple chased away curious, taunting crows. Watched as a great horned owl was wing-slapped in the middle of the night. And I witnessed up close that the newborns dined on pigeon pie, duck, and lots and lots of fish. Shadow, the male eagle, is doting and constantly brings meals and new decor to enliven and beautify their nest. I have learned mom's calls and have gotten to know when daddy is on his way home.

I have sat windstorms, rain, and snowstorms, and have rooted wildly for the babiest of the babies, who I took to calling Little, to get their fair share of food. Little showed a real fighting spirit, and my heart was swiftly stolen. The highs and lows of being an observer of nature's intensity is as wild a ride as one can take.

Imagine my heartbreak, on the dawn of the morning after the worst snowstorm the eagles and I had yet to endure, to find only two chicks in the nest. It seemed the whole world was looking on in shock as the minutes of the day ticked past. Grief seemed universal during those moments. We have all been so invested in this fabulous lila. These have been days of miracles and wonder. Hope lives in that nest.

And so nature says, not so fast. Live in the moment. Realize, yet again, it is all you really have. A slap of the Zen stick shocking all of our projections back into perceptions. Calling us to sit still, to feel, to respond when a response is called for, to see ourselves reflected everywhere, and to be awed and reminded of the ways of things. Loss and disappointment are held in the cradle of our hearts. They are as much a part of everything as is the joy we are capable of feeling.

The teachings of the nest are immense. They contain all of life. The loss and the disappointment, the grief, the crazy head-spinning feeling of out-of-control moments, the angst of waiting, the fearful and ecstatic anticipation, the hope, and the heart capable of love. It is the cycles of nature repeated over and over again, and we are welcome participants.
 
After days being stunned in every possible way, and sometimes days filled with fear of returning to the nest, I'm back to being an observer of nature. To being an observer of eagles and skies, of treetops and horizons, and of myself, knowing my heart can be broken at any moment. I'm listening and watching for miracles with wonder, waiting for the long-distance call of Little or her kin on the wind.

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