Friday Dispatch: This Is Not a Metaphor
A month of watching a family of Finches
Friday greetings,
A focal point of my days for the past month or so has been a family of birds that made their home on our small front porch.
It all began around the 4th of July, when I went to take down a hanging flower pot. Much to my sadness, the flowers had not, despite diligent watering, survived successive heat waves. But I was met with a surprise: A perfect, tiny bird’s nest.
A couple of days later, I peeked in. There was an egg! Each day after that, one additional egg appeared, until on July 9, the nest cradled four off-white, slightly speckled eggs.
I thought they were Sparrow eggs until I spotted the dad in a nearby branch. (I knew it was the dad, because the mama flew directly from the nest to him one morning when I opened the front door.) His red plumage revealed his true identity. These were House Finches!
On July 21, twelve days after the fourth egg appeared, three of the eggs hatched. (The last baby emerged the next day.) I was in awe. I felt like our house carried a thrilling secret of new life, hidden in plain sight.
For the next 17 days, I watched the babies and parents closely (OK, obsessively), while also trying not to disturb them. We postponed having our handyman Ben power wash the house, for fear of scaring the babies, or, worse, not knowing if such an interference could cause the parents to abandon them. We took Chalupa out to potty in the backyard more often so as not to frighten the mama, who fluttered into a tree or onto a power line every time the door opened. Here she is, keeping watch:
I texted the kids photos and updates, and Aviva named the babies, assigning each one an outsized personality. Matilda was the firstborn and a smarty-pants. Martini, a dreamy, philosophical type, and Marcos, a chill dude with a creative streak, came next. And finally, Middleton, our fourth friend, was the least sold on this whole situation (especially the pesky “leaving the nest” part), though ultimately he proved to be every bit as capable and brave as his siblings.
Soon, they outgrew the nest. In the mornings, we could see them peeking up over the edge of the flower pot, looking curious, only to lower their heads when we came outside. Their newly filled-out wing and tail feathers began to spill out over the edges. It wouldn’t be long before they flew away. I knew I was going to miss them.
I got pretty good at spotting Mama and Papa Finch. Here they are on Tuesday, albeit a bit grainy. (This was one of those times when I wished I had a “real” camera!)
On Wednesday, I gently lowered the pot to eye level. All four birds were still there.
And then, in a blink, they weren’t.
One of them – I am quite certain it was Matilda – flew so close past my face I could feel the flutter. It happened so quickly that I didn’t even realize that the others had also fledged, too. I stood there, holding the now-empty pot, my heart pounding. Had that really just happened?
Yes, it had.
I would rather omit this part, but that would be a kind of dishonesty, so I will tell you anyway: A wave of remorse and self-judgment flashed through me. Had my presence interfered with their natural process? Why couldn’t I have been content just to be proximate to such a miracle, without having to shove my literal nose in their nest? (To be fair, I was always as unobtrusive as possible when lowering the pot to peek in. But still, I am a giant, bumbling human, pulsing with curiosity, no way around it.)
I stood there for a few moments, my hand over my heart. I whispered a blessing of wonder and gratitude. Then I looked up what juvenile Finches do when they first fledge, and learned that they find other juvenile Finches and form new flocks.
As I sat down this morning, I wanted to tell this story in a way that would convey profound layers of implied meaning. I wanted to write something subtle, sublime, and masterful in its maneuvering of metaphor. After all, these birds and their journey from inception to flight offered me a micro-focus at a time when the macro is nothing less than overwhelming with overlapping emergencies. I wanted to write something about this family of Finches that would provide insights into the extraordinary gift of life, of the fragility and resilience we share with the entire natural world, and the imperative of remembering that we are not separate from but of this world. I thought, what better vehicle for commenting on our responsibility to be mindful, conscientious stewards of the incredible gifts of this earth?
How lofty of me.
The truth is, any attempt of the sort would have fallen flat. There is no need to force meaning from this experience or to conjure any on-high takeaways from it.
It was a gift to glimpse the life of these birds for a month. Watching them filled me daily with tenderness, amazement, and a desire not to cause harm – qualities I seek to extend outward in my days in a world howling with pain at the mercy of bad actors.
Gretchen Schmelzer, a psychologist and trauma expert, wrote a beautiful piece about fledglings; I came across it this morning while pecking out this piece. She notes: “Humans fledge hundreds of times. Maybe even thousands if you count all of the hops, leaps and flights.”
May I learn from the more-than-human world. May you leap with heart and fledge with courage. May you be housed and homed, fed and protected. And may we do our part, however small, to bring care and compassion to every living being until these are realities for us all. May it be so, speedily and in our days.
Shabbat Shalom and love,
Jena
Stop trying to write something amazing. Just start writing.
"Imagine curling up in a comfy chair beside your best friend in front of a crackling fireplace, as she shares ways to make your writing practice joyful and abundant. This is what I imagine as I delve into Jena’s book, Fierce Encouragement, and create page after page of writing that I am proud of." ~ Elizabeth Land Quant, author of F*ck This Murder, 5-star review on Goodreads
Whether you're writing for your own sanity, to generate material for further use, or to make progress on a particular project, I created this book for you. Purchase on BookBaby or Amazon.
Proud wife news!
M.J.’s nonfiction essay, "The Door to Every Answer," has been published in the Summer 2025 issue of The Sewanee Review, the country's oldest continuously published literary quarterly!!! They learned about this acceptance a few months ago but had to keep it mum. To finally get to share it is amazing, and I am filled with pride and respect for their perseverance, courage, honesty, and heart. As they wrote on Substack yesterday, "I endured the hurt, anger, and shunning of those so ensconced in the alcoholic family’s code of silence that they refuse to acknowledge how bad things were in private, let alone taking it public."
Read the powerful story behind M.J.’s publication here:
More Ways to Connect
Attend Our Summer’s End Retreat
Join Katavti, a Jewish Writing Group
Commit to a School Year of Writing Practice
🖤
This is simply beautiful. I was utterly invested, reading along and thoroughly enjoying the photographs. More and more, nature is all that makes sense to me. These moments that weave themselves in and around our lives. Thank you for sharing with us and bringing some genuine delight to my day.