Notes from the Nest

This summer has been a particularly fecund one for birds in my world. We’ve been surrounded by nests of blue jays, robins, and spotted towhees (which I call grackles—I can’t tell you why, but I like the name quite a lot). The bird babies are fledging now, which is an apt, in-your-face metaphor for my life.

This morning, my daughter flew away: off for a week to the National Flight Academy. It’s the first time she’s traveled alone and there will be no cell phone contact. Both my birds are now quite well feathered and venturing out farther and farther afield which is, of course, exactly and perfectly as it should be — and I hate it.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m delighted for them and proud that they are truly good humans who are kind and thoughtful and smart. I’m thrilled that they have passions that they’re pursuing (one in filmmaking, the other in illustration and aviation). I want them to explore the world, to have adventures and expand in every way. What I hate is that this means that they will leave. As they should. As they must. And that means that my world, my nest—the one I built and have inhabited joyfully, entirely, and completely— is tilting on its axis and things are shifting and falling apart.

And, as it happens, other things in my life — big things — have decided to fall apart at the  same time. Funny how that happens. It’s all one, big, fat, lesson in letting go. And, like the labors that brought my little birds into the world, it’s beyond my control. All I can do is surrender and breathe. I realize things have to change or nothing new could ever grow — me included. But knowing this doesn’t make the process any less messy and painful.

We all face multiple, major transitions throughout our lives, times when our identities are dissolved and we have to re-form and become someone new. The transitions can be delightful or they can be wrenching. Sometimes, they are both. But regardless of nature, all transitions are comprised of a death and a birth, and neither of these things is ever easy, tidy, or predictable.

This is not good news for the ego: the small, human self that hates change, hates uncertainty. It’s the self that feels sad, scared, and resistant. It wants guarantees and has no capacity to imagine anything other than what it’s known, so the unknown is always terrifying. But there is another part, a bigger, wiser Self, that knows change is natural, necessary, even desirable. It’s the part that says, “This is perfect.” It’s the me that says, “Deep down, I know it will all be fine.”

Both of these selves — the small self and the larger Self — dwell inside of us. I’ve learned that it’s not about trying to ignore or get rid of the small self: It’s about embracing both selves. It’s about feeling it all, listening to the small self with compassion, and then tuning into that Larger Self that knows that everything is okay, even when it’s hard, even when it hurts.

The I Ching — the famous Chinese Book of Changes — says, “When the way comes to an end, change. Having changed, pass through.” Being aware of both voices is the key to traversing change with self-compassion and grace. It’s the key to realizing that you are so much more than that small voice. Allowing the thoughts and the feelings and then listening, patiently, for the calm, wise voice of your Large Self is what allows you to “pass through.”

In the end, it’s not about “doing” anything: it’s about allowing everything. And having gratitude for it all.

💫💙✨✨*BONUS*✨✨💙💫

A SUFI TALE ABOUT TRANSFORMATIONAL CHANGE

A stream wandered across the country, experiencing little difficulty in finding new places to go, moving around rocks and through mountains. Then it came to a desert. The stream tried to cross this barrier in much the same way as it had other barriers, but it did not work. When it ran into the sand its water just disappeared, and the stream had no identity. It tried many times, but all attempts failed. The stream asked, “Could this be the end? Is there no way for me to continue?”

Then a voice came from the wind. “If you stay the way you are, you cannot cross the sands. You will remain in a quagmire. To go further, you must lose yourself to find yourself again.”

“But if I lose myself, the stream anguished, “I will never know what I’m supposed to be.”

“On the contrary,” said the voice. “If you lose yourself you will become more than you ever dreamed you could be.”

So the stream decided to surrender to the sun, and it evaporated into the heavens to form clouds. The clouds were carried many miles across the great desert. Then the stream poured from the clouds as cleansing rain upon the earth and formed a new stream that continued on its journey.

KATE INGRAM, MA, CSBC, is a mother of two beautiful birds, a quirky Havanese, and a love-junkie English Cream Golden Retriever. She’s also an award-winning author, counselor, coach and spiritual mentor who specializes in major life transitions. Find out more at kintsugicoaching.com or write kate@kintsugicoaching.com