“To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”
~ Mary Oliver ~

Yesterday while I was out walking, I came across a fallen bird nest. It’s been pretty windy lately, so it must have been blown out of the tree. It looked forlorn and out of place on the ground. There were no signs of any eggs, but I wondered if there were any in it when it fell. Maybe a hungry fox or raccoon stumbled upon it at just the right moment and gobbled up the feast waiting at their feet.

I wanted to take the nest. My students would love looking at the odd collection of material the mother used to build a home for her babies. The nest was made mostly of dried grass, with a few dead leaves and twigs. She’d also tucked in a fair amount of what at first I thought were feathers, but after looking more closely, I saw was fiberfill from a coat or a sleeping bag. A strip of blue plastic, maybe from a shopping bag, was also woven in.

Then I began to wonder about this mama bird. What went through her mind when she discovered her nest was missing? Did she look for it? Did she grieve for her hard work and her missing eggs?

I left the nest undisturbed. While I realize the bird can’t pick the nest up and put it back, she might be able to reassemble it bit by bit. I hope she will and that it will soon be filled with new eggs.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time writing and thinking about this nest in the past twenty-four hours. Many people would say that surely I have better things to do with my time. But I don’t think so. I’m working on two projects where these thoughts and observations might be useful. So I’ll tuck these thoughts away. I’ll know when the time is right to take them out again and weave them into a story or poem.

 Thank you to Stacey, Tara, Dana, Betsy, Anna, Beth, Kathleen, and Deb for this space for teachers and others to share their stories each Tuesday throughout the year and every day during the month of March. Be sure to visit Two Writing Teachers to read more Slice of Life posts.

Yesterday on her blog, Paula Bourque, aka LitCoachLady, recalled a conversation she’d had with Lynda Mullaly Hunt about “ideas being everywhere.” Paula went on to say, “I think Shakespeare had something there…

‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players:
they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays
many parts.’

What scenes can we script from the players we observe?”

This sparked a memory of waiting for a friend in Bryant Park one gorgeous afternoon last fall. I was doing exactly what Paula and Lynda were talking about. My journal reads:

“As I sit here in Bryant Park, the whole world is walking by.”

I was on the northwest side of the park, close to where two ping-pong tables are set up. Intense games were in progress and I enjoyed watching the players’ faces and body language as they scored points or lost games. The balls were neon orange and yellow, I guess so they’d be easier to find as they bounced off the table and into the crowd.

One ball kept getting away and finally settled in the groove between the paving stones. Just at that moment, a little girl, who was probably three or four, came along with her mother. The mother was hurrying somewhere, maybe trying to get her daughter to a birthday party. The girl appeared to be dressed for a party, looking like a ballerina in her a pink tulle skirt and black Mary Janes. She was captivated by the ball in her path. At first, her shiny black shoe gave the ball a gentle nudge. Emboldened by the fact that no one was trying to take the ball from her, she rested her foot on it. Suddenly, the ball shattered. The crack was swallowed up by the noise of midtown, but she was clearly startled and hurried to catch up to her mother.

This whole scene probably played out in a less than a minute. But I wondered about her intentions. Did she mean to crush the ball under her diminutive foot? Granted, I haven’t been around four year olds in a long time, but such an intentional act of destruction seemed completely at odds with her appearance. Or did she just press down harder than she meant to, wanting only to stop the ball and claim it as her own? I will never know. But remembering her and reading the details I captured in my journal have given me at least two ideas for a story I’ve been working on, and maybe one poem.

Thank you, Paula, for reminding me of this. You and Lynda are right: Ideas are everywhere.

Thank you to Stacey, Tara, Dana, Betsy, Anna, Beth, Kathleen, and Deb for this space for teachers and others to share their stories each Tuesday throughout the year and every day during the month of March. Be sure to visit Two Writing Teachers to read more Slice of Life posts.