4 min read

Birdhouses and the Promise of a F

Using the past as a reminder of future possibilities.
Birdhouses and the Promise of a F
Birdhouse © by Dave Graham

Birdhouses and the Promise of a Future

Welcome to the new year. It’s the same as the old year but with a slightly different sheen. Call it “promise,” “hope,” or whatever word follows your fancy but, it’s here.

There’s a lot to be said, many words to be considered, contemplated and chewed on, and then spit out into the ether for others to ponder. There’s work to be done, processes to complete, new journeys to take, endless possibilities to consider. All in all, we’re set up for whatever successes and failures we believe to be present. I’m of the firm belief that should we desire it to be so, we can make this year more of what we want and less of a drag on our souls.

It was a quiet holiday season for me, full of family and travel, thousands of miles flown, different coasts and communities visited, and encumbrances overcome. For many, it would be stressful and I’m no exception. Emma asked the important question last night: “Now that it’s over, do you feel that it went well?” My answer is, as always, “yes.” Those stressors and presuppositions of conflict and confluence were inevitably proven to be figments of my vivid imagination and…well, here I sit.

I have goals for this year, stories to write, journeys to take, people to encounter. I have words that need to be written, academic and otherwise, and I have that dastardly job that must be considered amidst it all. For all of these things, I’m grateful because they’re touchpoints that create the necessary gravity holding me to this earth. I find that they encourage my creativity more than hamper it so even as I sigh and stare at the bright screen of my work laptop, I’m going to do what needs to be done.

All of this as a preamble is probably enough of a post in and of itself. However, I’d like to get back to the main event: that is, the birdhouse.


This birdhouse is one of four that currently hang around my mother’s house and were crafted by my kids, mother, and me a few years ago. I used to bring the kids out to California back in the days of yore and, while there was a bit of trepidation based on geographic disconnect, the time always passed smoothly. My mom would always have crafts for the kids and me to do together with her and the birdhouse was one of them.

These birdhouses were nothing inherently special but, the idea that we would paint them and hang them about the property was the main event. Finding our expressions in the riotous colours and patterns that we could apply to that naked wood was delightful. My oldest made the one you see here, hearts layered against a darker background, the door spotted and the roof shiny with similar gradients.

Once painted and dried, it was my task to hang these about the trees and bushes lining the edges of the yard. Mine went up into the branches of a eucalyptus, my youngest found hers tied up to the low-hanging branches of an acacia. My mother’s found repose in the branches of some varietal or another and my oldest landed here, in the branches of some bush in the middle of the courtyard, nestled into the boughs of serenity and calm.

This birdhouse hasn’t moved for years now. I don’t know if it’s occupied and frankly, I don’t know that it matters. As I frequent the house sparingly these days, perhaps once or twice a year, I get a reminder that my children once were here, a touchpoint of the past. I am reminded, ever so subtly, that a part of my life has now passed and that my children will probably not venture back to this house. It’s a sad recognition that the geographic and emotional divide that has carved a rift between my kids and their grandma is artificial, driven by much more than a transcontinental plane ride. Indeed, it’s wrapped in the lies of another, a belief system thoroughly corrupted by an influence that lies closer to their hearts than I could be.

I have hope, however.

See, insofar as the birdhouse is a reminder of the past, it’s also a promise of a future. It’s a promise that these vacant spots in history, crafted by willing hands, will soon be full. That for however long it takes, there will still be something to cling to, something to abide in, something to carry precious moments with. This birdhouse, while a static object in a courtyard three thousand miles away, is hope for the future.

We’ve a new year to consider, a birdhouse to fill with dreams and deeds. We’ve stories to tell, people to encounter, lives to interleave together. We’ve classes to take, relationships to build, travels to distant lands to embark upon. We’ve birdhouses, you and I, that are waiting for the past to be set aside and the future to take residence in.

So, for the first post of this year, I bid you to start filling your soul with the things that you want to accomplish. Take the words that soar around your mind and commit them to action. Make your deeds matter and your moments count.

and…

May it ever be so.