text: Miraculously, I did NOT become a hoarder. From what I understand by watching hours of compelling reality television, hoarding is a condition that can manifest after a trauma, often by losing someone through death. Having lost my husband 2 yrs., 10 weeks, and 5 days ago, thankfully, it's safe to say, I didn't choose that route. There are no piles of newspapers, clutter, or rotting garbage, making it challenging to navigate through the rooms of my home. Instead, I became, what I like to call, a "selective collector" to help me process the grief and accept my new status as a widow. (That's what I tell myself anyway.) My compilation is relatively small in quantity, inexpensive to buy, but intriguing nonetheless. Especially if you know the mysterious background as to why I found myself drawn to these particular items. The unusual curios are confined to the shelves of a built-in wall bookcase amongst smooth-to-the-touch, wood-turned bowls, delicate pottery with leaf imprints embedded within the clay, and colorful hand-woven baskets created from natural grasses. Items that come from the earth and are rich in texture and soothing to gaze upon. Fully displayed, my collection has become an alter of sorts. Souvenirs of a memory that instantly transports me back to a fleeting moment when saying goodbye was a pleasant, heartfelt experience. One that has helped me cope with oncoming grief. Unlike snow globes, kitschy salt and pepper shakers, baseball cards, or vintage toys in their original packaging, my unique procurements are not an obsession or bought to reap the financial rewards when their values increase. My collection is inspired by a personal encounter with a small bird during a difficult time. A friendship that brought new meaning to my life. As the caregiver to my then-terminal husband, I found joy in the most unexpected place - on my doorstep. Stepping outside my front door early one morning, just as the sun rose on a cool spring day, I was drawn to what appeared to be the beginnings of a nest being built on the wooden door frame ledge above my head. The dark mound of gnarly shoots, sprigs, and crude branches stood out against the pale ivory-painted woodwork, surprising me with its sudden appearance. Its size was hard to miss amongst the sticky, stringy cobwebs around the door jam, bits of grass cuttings, and dust that had flown through the air and settled on every surface from the previous day's mowing. Curiously, the nest had appeared overnight. Precariously perched there, half on, half off the ledge in the far left corner, teetering on a narrow wood plank with little to support it from behind. This crude nest could have been at risk from the unpredictable weather elements. One strong gust of wind would destroy it quickly. I assumed the bird chose that very spot to protect it from neighborhood cats, and with the exterior porch light's illumination, there might have been a gentle glow that assisted with building the nest in the dark hours of the night. I noted the nest briefly, then went on my way, leaving it be. Giving it little attention at that stage of development. Gradually, other materials were added until they formed a solid structure of twigs, grasses, moss, mud, and leaves. A design that looked sturdy and deep enough to securely, yet gently, cup the precious eggs to be laid within. I watched with great curiosity as each day brought new developments. This was my first time witnessing a nest being built up close. As time passed, the protective mother bird, a robin, finally showed herself to me. She was perched within her nest, possibly over eggs inside. Occasionally she'd swoop down on me as I left the confines of my home. Dive bombing me by flying within a couple feet of my body but not attacking. This was now her territory, and she wasn't about to let any harm come to her or the nest. She was guarding it, and she meant business. I came and went gingerly. Quietly entering and exiting my home. I'd gently close the door to avoid jarring the framework foundation. I had no intention of disturbing her or bringing on any mistrust. I was happy to share the space. Watching this feathered creature thrilled me. I reverted to being a curious small child, all wide-eyed with excitement and wonder, witnessing Mother Nature's magnificent glory through one of her winged creations. Each day, I captured the nesting progress on my cell phone by snapping a few quick photos from a safe distance, then running inside to share them with my ill husband. The time-lapse of images showed the progression of how new life was coming. It was fresh and exciting. Would I see any eggs? When might they be laid? Every day brought a new level of fascination and questions. I remembered my own human "nesting " experiences decades ago as an expectant mother. Getting everything ready in time was critical. Feeling like Sir David Attenborough as I observed from a safe distance, I was drawn to this beautiful wonder of nature and could hear an imaginary narrative voice documenting the process. In my head, Sir David was beside me, describing how everything was unfolding as intended. At a time when I was feeling the anticipatory grief of my husband slipping away and the heaviness of being his caregiver, there was something extraordinary happening before me. This small act of nature was a glimmer of light for me. Being privy to something magical for a few minutes each day released me from all the complicated physical and emotional sorrow that I was going through. When the world felt cruel and unbearable, I was reminded that there was also beauty. Later that week, I stepped outside to see three small nestlings appearing to look over the edge of the twigs that made up their home. My heart swelled. Their featherless heads appeared like wrinkled, skinless grapes bobbing up and down. Their beaks were wide open as they made tiny chirping noises. The mother bird was nowhere to be seen. Possibly searching for worms and insects to feed them. Again, I remained at a safe distance to observe in silence, and with my trusty phone camera, I snapped the newest images, thoroughly fascinated by the progress made from the time the nest was created. As time progressed, the chicks grew, and dark-colored feathers formed. Little tufts of down that appeared slightly oily were now covering the bald patches. Again, they would look over the side of the nest and chirp at me. Their dark eyes, now open, were clearly visible, and their gaze was intent. Each day they would see me for a few minutes and seemed comfortable with my presence. I would speak to them in hushed quiet tones, fully confident that they were just as fascinated with me as I was with them. Their large baby bird eyes shone brightly, making me smile. Even Mama Bird grew to be unphased by my coming and goings. I was now accepted and trusted. She often flew into a nearby oak tree and watched me and her nest from afar. She knew I would do them no harm. With the passing days, feathers covered the babies, their wings fully formed, and seemingly, it was time they were on their way. I stepped outside the door to witness two birds jump at that very moment from the nest and fly off awkwardly into the nearby tree where their mother often perched. The third bird, however, gave me a spectacular parting gift. The little fledgling jumped out of the nest, awkwardly flopping about, and promptly landed at my feet. Standing on my jute fiber "welcome" doormat at the entrance of my home, it looked up at me with its shiny dark eyes. Its stare was intent. Gazing at me with great effort and focus, I felt an incredible connection. This tiny creature was saying goodbye. I realized what a special moment this was, and again, I grabbed my camera and snapped what would be my last photo - one of that baby bird looking up at me. It stayed with me for a few minutes. I talked to it in hushed tones, thanking it for bringing joy into my life. And with that, it flew off on its own. Never to be seen again. The nest was abandoned. Left deserted, so they could move forward with their lives and be free. Free to fly, free from any constraints. I was sad to no longer have the daily interactions, but I experienced something rare between myself and a wild animal I will never forget. As crazy as it sounds, I felt a kinship, an emotional bond with these creatures. The small daily interactions had such an important impact on my mental health. I would like to think I gave them something in return, even if it was just sharing the confines of my home and offering safety. After my husband passed away several months later, I gravitated toward birdcages for unknown reasons. I had no desire to own or keep a bird as a pet - I would rather see them in their wild habitat. These birdcages were nothing that would hold a real bird; they were ornamental. Purely decorative Victorian, French, and Venetian reproductions with elaborate scrolled wrought iron bars and domes, Chinese pagoda varieties with several tiers, and square box wooden cages with miniature hatch doors that raised up and down. Some were purposely rusted to look vintage, others painted or given a blue-green patina for an aged appearance. I was drawn to the large ornate birdcages and the miniature versions- roughly the size of a small bird. All varieties of primitive, rustic, and shabby-chic decor styles. This became my "collection." I started researching birdcages and birds and wondered what the significance might be. Why was I drawn to them? There had to have been some profound meaning. Something deep in my psyche, perhaps? The answer seemed obvious. Christian, Hindu, Muslim, and Buddhist teachings accept the bird as a metaphor for the human soul. In Japan, the crane is believed to carry the soul to heaven and grant immortality. In Hiroshima, colorful origami folded paper cranes are made and gifted to bring peace, compassion, and healing. Birds symbolize freedom, hope, transformation, and new beginnings in indigenous, spiritual, and religious beliefs. Birds are seen as messengers of God, and flying birds are seen as a link between the spirit world and the earthly realm. Flying meant independence, being liberated, and not being held down by convention or restrictions. An empty birdcage represents freedom and making new choices in life. For me, the symbolism hit home. It was a reminder that one needs to evolve by "leaving the nest" or "cage." To take that leap of faith, to grow and soar. This could be a sign that I needed to live a spectacular life with my finite time on this planet. One that honored me and my husband (the experiences he couldn't have due to his early passing.) My husband's soul was freed once he left this earthly realm, and drastic changes to my existence came with it. I was no longer living a life of constant foreboding and heavy round-the-clock caregiving duties. Like the baby bird, I had to start anew and face the scary world alone. Making myself the priority. Letting go of "what was," I could recognize the beauty, meaning, and purpose of life and death. This was my call to action to start living. Observing this spectacular aspect of nature, I experienced many emotions and teachings. With these came hope, gratitude, and celebrating things differently. I had a new set of eyes and perspective. I can either grieve, mourn and dwell on what is no longer my life, or I can see the beauty and understand the difficulties of letting go and coming to a place of acceptance. Grateful for the incredible ride, I now understand that the most significant growth comes from the darkest times. I can't think of a better animal interaction I could have had - and at a time when I needed it most. My ongoing fascination with birds gives me a new level of understanding, enlightenment, meaning, and purpose. Unexplainable and spiritual encounters with random feathered friends have continued to bring me ongoing joy. Feeding (and photographing) robins, chickadees, sparrows, wrens, tufted titmice, and even woodpeckers from my hand have become treasured moments in time that bring tears to my eyes. Being trusted and part of an animal's world is truly a gift. The birdcages I so lovingly collect will always remind me to be connected to nature, to delight in the little things in life, to be curious, and never let myself be held back or restricted from what I want to achieve. I will always aim to soar high like the birds that inspire me.