Our resident bluebirds sit on their box and preen. They flit to a nearby branch and soak in the springtime. His blue feathers are brilliant in the early morning sunshine. Hers are more subdued. Look closely, she has blue plumage tucked in there, too. I love them. It’s wonderful to watch their nest building process and to anticipate their box filled with tiny blue eggs. The promise of new life always excites me.
But the swallows? Why do they dive-bomb the happy couple? Why do they try to steal the box? Go find a home of your own, swallows! We built this one for the bluebirds.
Is my attitude toward the swallows indicative of other phases of my life? It’s easy to love the ones for whom we have prepared a place, the ones we are expecting, the beautiful people in our lives – blue-plumed, graceful, promising new life. But what about life’s swallows? The gray and dismal creatures who are so needy they seem to suck life out of things, take life from others, dive-bomb our tranquility with their uninvited presence, contribute nothing in return – what about them? Can I love the swallows? Should I?