She’s small and brown and currently residing in a well-worn, often used, rather messy but perfectly cozy, repurposed old bird’s nest in the far northeast corner of my “veranda” (which is a fancy name I’ve given to a well-worn, often used, rather messy but perfectly cozy, repurposed old carport attached to the far northwest corner of my house).

I think she’s a house finch.  And I don’t believe this is a proper nest for her.  I suspect it’s more of a “pied-à-terre” she’s created for herself – in which to rest and escape the heat of the day and perhaps reassess other worldly pressures.  

She seems to be alone.  Unusual for a house finch.  But it’s been weeks now, and I’ve not seen a mate or any baby bird heads peeking over the nest edge. 

Often, although not always, when I join her on the veranda, she flits and flutters and dances away to a nearby tree.  Perhaps she is showing me the simple joy to be found in life – the rhythm of it, the twirling skirts and rollercoaster dips and wave-like swells of it all – as demonstrated through her unique and inherited pattern of flight.  That is the universal message of house finches, after all.  Nudging us to always look for the joy in all the small and ordinary things around us, and in each other.  

But what if she is fleeing the nest when I arrive simply to avoid companionship?  And, too, I have noticed that she doesn’t sing.  Also unusual behavior for a house finch. 

At first I thought she might have come to me as a spirit animal, meant for this time and place.  Now I wonder if perhaps I am meant to be hers.

It is believed that spirit animals choose us.  That they sense our needs and vulnerabilities and when we may be at a crossroads seeking discernment, and they come to us to guide and example for us with their natural wisdom and insight and inborn attributes.  According to ancient traditions, unlike lifelong and sometimes ancestral “totem” animals, “spirit” animals are temporary and fluid, flowing in and out of our lives as we journey through existence.  

Over my own decades, I have benefitted greatly from recognizing and absorbing the plethora of messages generously shared with me from this beautiful, well-stocked earth.  I have held fast to the rough bark of trees for peace, and curled my toes deep into hot beach sand for solace; I’ve whispered with foxes in the magic of the night, and breathed up the noses of horses in an exchange of empathy; I’ve been licked by the tongues of butterflies, and flown on the wings of one that was torn and battered and brave beyond reason; I’ve learned right-from-wrong-side-up from the bulbs of flowers and been grounded by the earth itself; I’ve mourned for spiders and goldfish, wept with bats, laughed as well as bled with squirrels, been shamed by giraffes and warned by lightning bugs and bumble bees.  And I have shared the entirety of my life with the inexplicable compassion and perfect faith of dogs and cats of so many kinds.  What if it is now my turn?

I wonder if perhaps this little house finch has come to me with just that message – a reminder of an ancient commitment about caregiving we humans once made to the earth, a responsibility we desperately need to keep.  Perhaps I am meant to be the spirit companion of my house finch now with such things as fresh, pure, unpolluted water for her to drink and splash in … breezes for her to glide on that are clean and free … grasses and ground and tree branches that haven’t been poisoned … edges left wild in which to forage … genuine gentleness and respect as an equal living being … an environment that knows only peace.

Perhaps by providing such a world for this one small brown bird, she, at least, will not give up on us.  Perhaps, one bit at a time, the rest of the earth and all of us on it – creatures and plants and humans alike – might do the same.  As long as we hold fast to our promises, hope, and house finches, perhaps it’s not too late.