Nesting season

Travelling back to summer today in case you, like me, could do with a little warmth

Sometimes it feels like we’re still locked down. Going out is hard. I care. And so we stay in.

Instead we invite the birds to come to us. Scatter seeds and mealworms around our small back garden. Feel our faces light up as a coal tit darts from the dried stems on the patio to the window feeder. Timid yet resolutely returning, time and time again.

I make trips from the living room to the kitchen cupboards. Scan the shelves for new offers to add to the short-order cook menu. Lose myself in sleep stories, travelling by train into longed-for landscapes.

What are you doing in there? It’s beautiful out here, the robin is surely thinking. It gazes curiously through the window at we humans, bent over small screens, faces aglow. Again.

It truly is. And so we try. Armed with ear defenders and lathered in layers of sensory overloading sunscreen. Socks straightened, shoes on and off and thrown at the wall in despair and – deep breaths – on again. By the time we spill onto the street, we are sticky and spiky.

Outside is loud and unpredictable. Mowers drone while neighbours casually drop F-bombs from their make-shed bar. The pitch of the strimmer is too much for nerves already frayed. I try to contain the sigh as I slide the key back into the front door, silently counting the hours until Jay gets home. Open my arms to catch the disappointment that hurls into them. Hold steady, absorbing the storm.

I long for wild silence. To teleport to the sea. Sink my toes into cold, wet sand and feel the soothe of the waves. To not be trapped by these walls. I miss the open space of the fields I grew up in, the prick of barley yavins brushing against palms. The bounce of moss underfoot while moths flit overhead. Fingers ploughing through earth, feeling for the rough promise of a fossil. These places, so close by crow, are worlds away today.

Later, when things go quiet, I slip outside. Step carefully over the slug on the wooden step, curl my legs up in the orange chair. I hear the blackbird, vibrant and bold as he calls the night in. Listen in hope for the snuffle of the hedgehog that, last year, enthralled us with her nightly visits. Gaze at the gossamer trail, whispering over glass. Feel my nervous system recalibrate with each noticing.

I wish I could speak bird. Let my voice soar. I’m sorry that the tree got cut down, I know it was your home. You are safe here. I think they know, because if I sit very still, they swirl and swoop around me. And in that moment, we are one.

The door creaks open and my daughter steps into the night. Sloths-in-Santa-hats smile beatifically from her pyjamas as she gazes up to the darkening sky, flapping in excitement when a bat cruises overhead before tucking itself nimbly back into the roof. On tiptoes, she spins down the higgledy path, pausing to squat when she spots a snail. Rescue complete, she continues on her way, arms stretched high and pointing to the first stars now peeping out. Excited chatter rising up and up, into the cooling air.

We study the sky. Feeling the vastness of it all and the slipping away of the day’s anxious cast. Here together in this moment, connection fuels our souls. We are all galaxy, all wonder. Her hand slips into mine. And as we lock eyes to say I love you with a slow, steady blink, this small, constricting space transforms into the cosiest of nests.

Leaving the security of home is hard but worth it when we get to experience places like this