We have a bird’s nest above our front door. Each spring, a swallow shows up and prepares it for her babies. Last week, I sadly heard a swallow hit our picture window and fall to the ground. I knew it was the mother swallow and now her chirping fledglings were without adult supervision.
Immediately, I know I need to take charge. I Google for information. I run about the house getting a little box, a soft rag, tweezers. I sacrifice a little worm. I give Sherry orders on how to save the tiny swallows.
Sherry laughs and balks at my orders. She says I’m not a mother swallow. She tells me to let things be.
I feel helpless just standing watch. I can’t climb the ladder and save the day.
Dusk arrives. To my amazement, one at a time, each little swallow leaves the nest and lands on the green grass below. They flap their wings and then head out to nearby tree branches.
In retrospect, I’ve realized I still have a hard time accepting the advice I received way back in grade school. So often, it’s best to just “mind my own beeswax.”