About a month ago, my mother discovered a nest on the wreath we have above the entrance door. The nest was beautifully crafted, small but strong sitting on top of the crown, intelligently located under our roof to block out wind and rain with constant access to food. My mother showed it to my siblings and I with a tenderness I rarely get to see in her—for a woman that learned her only resort is holding her head high even when she couldn’t, when she shouldn’t have, a shimmer of tenderness is harder than any proof of strength. We all felt very excited. My mother noted the intricacies of the nest, pointing out the maternal instinct in every twig placed. Only a mother, she said and I hugged her for a long time.
My siblings, my mother, and I grew expectant: a bird was going to inhabit the nest soon, leaving her babies in the safe space she believed our home was. The day of the discovery we practically camped inside the entrance door waiting to catch a glimpse of the creature through the transom window. It did no take long for Mother House Finch to find her way back. She was tiny, beige-coloured with brown stripes down her belly, a flat shiny beak, and wings that spread over the circumference of the nest—only a mother indeed. After some time, I did some research and found the house finch is a species native to Mexico just like us. Perhaps Mother House Finch wanted to recover part of her roots the same way we have tried since we’ve been in the US. Or maybe she just noticed the bird feeder and was smart.
The four of us quickly placed bets for who was going to come up with the name that best suited Mother House Finch. My mother simply knew she was a Stella. Of course I made my Moden Family/Streetcar Named Desire jokes (which went greatly unappreciated by the way), but she was a Stella nonetheless; her little body made all sorts of pirouettes through the sugar maple canopies, reflecting the sun back to the ground with every promenade. We simply had to wait for the eggs.
Exactly a month ago I turned twenty-two years old, my birthday falling comfortably on the same Friday as my last day of college—talk about closing cycles. I do not handle birthdays well since my sixteenth. It is a day that forces me inside a wave of melancholy I cannot dive under, just wait to wash over me as I float away onto a new age. This year, the wave became hurricane. The duty of adulthood and the prospect of independence simply unfolded itself in front of me. With College crossed out, the checklist was simply commencing: I have been job-hunting for two years now, as I submit stories and poems wherever I can find but I am mostly met with rejection. I plan on moving back to Mexico, my home base, to understand where I go from here. See how the nest on our doorway might be just too much of a coincidence?
Stella laid five eggs. We all had a chance to name one of the babies as we pretended to talk with Stella whenever we sat outside to enjoy the awaited summer breeze. Mother would mumble under her breath, my siblings would call her out to play, and I just asked her to stay close. She flew out every morning, we’d see her again around lunchtime and then off she went again until the sun set, when Stella would sit and spread her wings over her children. As the days passed while we waited for the birth, I kept asking my mother how could I stand on my own if I was choosing to stand over words. My anxieties grew heavier; none of my stories were working, none of my poems made sense, the essays I thought I was crafting for the newsletter were dull, saying nothing.
“It’s not rejection. You do fine with rejection,” she said one night while we were doing the dishes. I told her what else could it be? Some fear or load was interrupting my writing, distorting the words on the page, rearranging them to something unintelligible, something I wouldn’t choose to read. Classic fear of rejection symptoms.
“You feel the weight of independence now. Anyone’s words would be affected by that, the freedom of autonomy.”
I did not understand what she meant. Since I can remember, independence has been a goal for me, whatever the means I would take to achieve it. An autocracy of days spent reading, cooking badly, and long nights of inspired work—you will recall, my dear reader, what I wrote on a previous newsletter about a soft life being seemingly too much of a wish. Independence (financial, social, creative, what have you) has always been a priority of mine. So why did I choose words as the building blocks for it? Did I even choose to be a writer or was there nothing else I was meant to become? Am I even-yet-still a writer?
That is the weight of independence: the freedom of it ultimately speaks to how many sacrifices will feel as such and how many will turn blessings. The burden of leaving my mother for the first, and arguably at the worst, time. The haul of the artist, having chosen freedom over stability (or whatever our current society has deemed stability to be). The icky questions: did I choose correctly, is this the right path, did I leave the nest too early? I have been so eager to fly and the worries it conveys, I forgot to make sure my wings are ready. Independence, or the idea of such is freeing, terribly liberating. I cannot amount for the number of paths I see drawn on the sand before me, how many of Sylvia’s figs I see blooming over my head. I don’t want the waves to wash the paths away, the figs to rot, the nest not being able to support me any longer having grown too heavy. Does that mean I must fly earlier than I am meant to?
The day they hatched, my mother had tears in her eyes.
A month has passed and I am barely making sense of this burdensome gift. A month has passed and Stella has flown away hopefully with her children. I am not sure if house finches stay in flocks. We had to move the nest, remove the wreath. I am barely dipping my toe on adulthood, on trying to make it as a writer, on leaving my mother’s side. But today I made sure to write this introspection down because Stella visited. She is perched on the railway expecting something. I know it’s her, I know she is waiting. I simply had to write.
“[The jackdaw] was free to range wherever he wished; always he came back to her and at night they repaired to her room, where he roosted like a guardian spirit on the iron rail of her bed. He was a magic bird. She loved him more than she had loved anything, anything or anyone.”
O Caledonia by Elspeth Barker
Currently reading Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo and gosh did I need a book like this! I had forgotten how fun fantasy is, how hooked I could be eating away at the pages of a book. I tend to be a slow reader but Miss Bardugo knows what she is doing. Both ashamed and proud to admit this is the first book I read of hers.
I am also reading Committed by Suzanne Scanlon, which was gracefully gifted to me by Anchor Books. I am taking my time with this one as it is hitting perhaps a little too close home. Scanlon is a master of weaving her own experience of anxiety and depression with other female writers and their ailments, crafting a profound critique of “female madness” and how both, society and medicine, has deemed it to be and be treated. It is my most annotated book so far!
Stella is not a lover of getting her picture taken but the little ones were!
Thank you for reading!
You have no idea what it means to me that you take the time to read These Crumpled Thoughts of mine.
Engaging in the creative process has been among the most profound experiences of my life, and in some ways, similar to the story of Stella and her nest, which parallels the nuances of your journey in writing.
Your story aptly mirrors Stella’s meticulous construction of her refuge, with how you assemble your narrative with deliberate care and precision. Observing her methodical approach prompts reflections on how the nest’s robust yet vulnerable nature and sanctuary reflect your creative process's intricate balance. Moreover, the metaphor deepens when you consider Stella’s refuge a sanctuary for her offspring, similar to how other readers might find understanding and respite within their own subjective realities through someone else's writing.
The profound question you posed, ‘How does one stand on their own if they are to stand on their own words,’ strikes at the heart of what it means to be a writer. This inquiry does not simply seek an answer but prompts a deeper reflection on the role of independence in creativity and life. It highlights the resilience required to navigate this complex landscape.
My experiences have made it increasingly clear that writing is not merely a choice. It often feels like an awakening to the omnipresent narratives within oneself, others, and our collective world. This realization—that capturing these stories in words is akin to performing a magic trick—suggests that while the mechanics of the trick might strip away some initial enchantment, understanding the method behind it unveils the true magic of our narratives.
As long as you possess this ability, and I have no doubt, based on your writings that you do, you will always have the capacity to connect deeply with these narratives and, by proxy, others. Building an interpersonal framework that helps process and make sense of this will invariably speak to your method of creativity and curiosity. Your ability to speak to these things through your writing is a gift that should be celebrated regardless of the burdens it may sometimes carry.
The weight of this endeavor stems not just from the usual rejections but from the profound responsibility and freedom inherent in autonomous creation. It’s natural to question your readiness and choices, especially as you confront the realities of forging your path, much like Stella’s methodical building of her nest brought both solace and uncertainty. As every writer encounters doubt and apprehension, these moments are not merely obstacles but are integral to the maturation of your voice and your work. They compel a deeper engagement with your craft and life’s unfolding narrative.
In light of this, Stella’s recent return should be seen not as a closure but as an indication that your journey continues. The challenges and uncertainties you face in shaping your narrative and defining your space within the writing world are ongoing. The process of writing, then, becomes not just a means of expression but a continuous engagement with the complexities of your own life and the broader human condition.
Simply put, to write is, in some way, to experience what it means to be a human. Thank you for making that attempt, something that can be so personal and open to the public for consideration and discourse. I genuinely enjoyed reading.