I can’t unseen it now, how she became the nest from which I flew.

I have slept in them. Written about them. Longed for them. Been coddled in them. But this was the first year that I painted a nest. And it’s not lost on me that it was only after I painted my Grandma Elsie. And it wasn’t planned — who can plan magic? — and it wasn’t contrived, they both came at exactly the right time. 

I suppose with all good nests, it takes a lot of gathering. Story by story, twig by twig, but I see it now, what (who) gave me the security to fly. I hadn’t noticed the palette similarity until I placed the bird beside her. It is undeniable. Not everyone can teach you how to fly. Maybe my mother did that. Some have the specific role of building the nest. And without it, nothing else is really possible. No daring, without a safe place to land. No risk, without the blending of the heart’s colors. 

I can say my “thank yous” daily, and I do, but I imagine the only true way to show my gratitude to this wide eyed giver of the nest, is simply to fly.

I’ll see you up there.