"Rise up, child of earth. Let life rise up in you, full-term, new-born. Time enough in wondrous darkness, Echoed sounds of voices, sittings, splashings of new life. Relinquish to memory this one mystery we yearn to know and will again in after-death. So much latent still to rise, until our rising lifts us to a depth of questions every truth we’ve ever known. Mud-stirred of first-clay. Plaything of a potter who fell in love with hands’ work. Blessed be her handiwork. Blessed be the work of her hands. Blessed be." ~Pat Kozak

I have several friends who are doulas, those who are trained to be companions to pregnancy and birth. I am amazed by their work and by their stories of being witness to the birth of another new one who will walk this earth. It is work that, I imagine, takes patience,wisdom,deep relationship,trust and a large dose of hope. I send blessings and prayers for all those engaged in this holy companioning.

Our family has been, in a sense, acting as doulas over the last several weeks as we have kept watch over a nest built in the tree that is adjacent to an upstairs window. When we noticed it, the fat mother robin was not sitting there and I climbed into the attic to peer down to see if there were indeed any eggs in it. There, fragile and brilliant blue, lay one single egg. Within moments the mother was back and settled in. Over the days that followed, we observed the father bringing food to the nest, heard raucous sounds as a crow was chased away, until finally my climb once more into the attic produced a glimpse of a pitiful, ugly little squirming mass.

Winds were strong over the next days and yet the mother sat tight on her offspring, shielding it from cold and the chance of being blown to its death. It was at that moment that I remembered a book our boys had loved as children. It was called "Are You My Mother?" and told the story of a baby bird who had fallen out of the nest and went searching for its mother. The bird would approach other living things, a dog and an owl, asking "Are you my Mother?"Throughout the story, of course, there were near misses with danger until finally the baby bird comes to a crane and asks "Are you my Mother?" The crane gave no answer but slowly lifted the bird back into the nest where it was reunited with the mother who had been searching for it.

The reality of course is that there was really nothing our family did to help this little bird into the world.The ways of Creation have provided for that. But we did feel somehow connected to these harbingers of spring, those we look so ardently for in April and May. We kept watch and became witness to the fragility of their lives. I would love to think that had the winds blown the baby from its nest, we could have been like the crane and returned it safely to the presence of its Mother.

But there was no need. This morning I saw the robin, now looking more adolescent than infant, scraggly feathers poking out from its growing body. The Mother was not home and the bird was walking with a feigned confidence around the edge of the nest. It is waiting to fly.

As a Mother, I know that look. It is one that fills our hearts with fear and pride and resignation. It is a reminder that the real job of parenting is to give our children roots……………..and wings. Blessed be the handiwork. Blessed be. Blessed be