Posted by Elizabeth

Last week, I received a giant care package from my friend, Holly, who lives in Oregon.  I muscled the box into the house, excitedly tearing away the brown paper casing to reveal a treasure trove of hand-me-down baby items.  Nestled amongst the soft-worn onesies and a rainbow of bibs were special gifts bound carefully by cheerful ribbons.  Time for Bed and I Love You, Goodnight, two of her son’s favorite books, were included, as was a green knitted cap sprouting a pea pod atop.  I immediately set to work organizing my wares, meticulously folding and placing the clothing in the baby’s dresser, finding a perfect place for the books, moving a stuffed animal to different locations around the room at least three times.

By all accounts I appear to be “nesting,” that ubiquitous, gossamer curtain that all women seem consigned to pass through at some stage of their pregnancy.  Far transcending the organization of baby clothes, my life maintains a steady orbit around home these days, the radius of activity growing smaller, the scope bound by a strong undercurrent of nesting instincts.  The upheaval of our bathroom remodel project, while finally drawing to a close, can’t come soon enough.  I am an anxious mama bird, nervously fluttering around the entrance to the bathroom, pecking at boxes of tile, feathering dusty countertops, winging at tools – knowing full well that the delicate order I’ve created will be disrupted in a matter of moments.    “When will it be done?” I chirp, my constant birdsong.  “Soon,” Maikael assures me.

Unable to rest or focus as the work lingers on, I force myself out into the jagged world, but find the magnetic pull of home difficult to resist.  I set about tasks that will soothe my tattered nerves.  Cooking, a long-time passion, leaves me weary and irritable.  Instead, I find myself churning out golden banana bread, buttery cookies, and plump blueberry muffins at the (alarming) rate of a professional bakery.  I pore over my well-thumbed copy of Baking Illustrated, literally salivating, knowing where my seven pounds of weight gain last month came from.  While the day-to-day routine of cooking feeds the body, baking nourishes the soul:  right now, this is the sustenance I need most.

According to my birth class instructor, nesting is a real thing, a set biological function.  Holly, who attempted a full kitchen remodel in the midst of her own pregnancy, commiserated with my situation by relating how distressing it was to have the heart and hearth of her home exposed and gutted during this fragile time.  She sought refuge in the other areas of her house, continuing to build her nest by conducting a major spring cleaning while the work carried on.  She confirmed what my instructor emphasized:  “Husbands definitely don’t get it.”

But I don’t think the nesting instinct is confined to pregnancy.  We all nest in our own way during times of transition, whenever great change looms heavy on the horizon.  I recall periods of my own life when one stage was drawing to a close before another yawned opened – the end of school, jobs, relationships, and even seasons – when all I could muster energy for was painting walls, clearing out closets, and color-coding my library of books.  This is not frivolous activity:  our nests are a vitally important touchstone, a defined, tranquil space when the winds of change beat against the door.  It’s times like these that we work hard to bring order and structure to a situation that feels perilously out of our control.

And it doesn’t just apply to the physical realm.  Nesting involves gathering our resources, counting our reserves, and taking stock of our psychological storehouses.  We intimately acquaint ourselves with what we have before reaching out into the world to acquire more.  I find myself deepening old friendships rather than cultivating new ones.  I write long, rambling letters to dear friends, linger on the phone for hours with my most trusted confidantes, send cards just because, and stoke the fires of dwindling relationships over long lunches.  I sift through old photos and drench myself in sepia memories.  I fall back on the recipes I know by heart.  I wear the clothes I know best.  I trust the time-honored and the true, and hold the familiar close because who knows what’s coming next?

Before we can pass through the veil that shrouds our period of change and back into the bright, naked world, we owe it to ourselves to give due time and attention to building our nests.  We need a location that feels secure and out of harm’s way, where all we hold dear will be protected and kept close at hand.  I love the film Away We Go, wherein a young couple, expecting their first child, embarks on a transcontinental trip to find a place to make their home before their child is born.  From the blistered Arizona desert to the cosmopolitan pulse of Quebec, nothing fits the bill until they arrive at the sagging Florida house of the woman’s childhood.  Although dilapidated and long-abandoned, the house – perched on the side of a lazy river and nestled in mature citrus groves – is the first place that feels like home.  It’s the choice that makes no sense and perfect sense.  Wherever we build our nests, by necessity or choice, it’s our job to work around constraints to make it feel like home, weaving a cocoon of shelter, warmth, and security, sometimes in the most unlikely of places.

Nests are not feathered by reaching a long arm out into the world, but by drawing deep from what’s within arm’s reach.  A bird spins her nest from the scraps of life that are close at hand:  rough twigs and downy feathers, lacy ribbons of thread, shiny bits of candy bar wrappers.  Nesting is as much about the reorganization of our existing worlds as it is about painting the world anew.  While the veil is still pulled tight around me in these waning months of pregnancy, I remind myself that I can build a cozy refuge while the whine of saws whirls around me, and indulge in activities that feel restorative and soul-full.  My nest will be what I make it, because I already have everything I need.

In what ways do you nest?  How does nesting help you cope with the process of change?

Our next Life in Pencil Moment of the Week will be featured on Friday, June 11.  Email Anne or me with your submissions by Thursday, June 10.