A few months ago the lot next door to our house got cleared. All but 4 of the trees were cut down. At the time, I was sitting in front of my computer upstairs. I could feel the vibrations of the trees as each one fell to the ground. These were the very trees that I had observed for 24 years, they grew up with my children, stood proud and tall for many a Sierra winter, this had become their fate in the name of progress.

As each tree fell, flocks of birds began flying around and around our house, like they were in a sense of great panic, and all they could do was fly in circles in a state of shock.

The next day, I observed a robin and her mate building a nest right next to my window. There seemed to be a sense of urgency. I thought perhaps their nest had been destroyed by the tree cutting.

The male was very engaged in searching for the "right" twig. He would carefully bring it to the female. She would then inspect it and, if it was acceptable weave it into the nest. She would protest when the object wasn't to her liking, these castoffs were on a small pile below the nest. "Just like a pregnant woman," I thought, everything must be in order for the birth.

After several weeks of nest building I could hear sounds, especially early in the morning. I would observe the male robin coming and going with food. I could hear the cries of the chicks as their morning meal would be delivered. I felt all of my maternal instincts re-awakening.

Each day I would wake up, hear the chicks, observe the parents' comings and goings. They had become a part of "my" family.

The days grew into weeks and soon the chicks were fully grown. One day my husband said "I think they will be taking off soon". Oh, I thought "I'm really going to miss them when they fly
away". I felt so attached to this family, like it was my own.

The next day I awoke to a strange stillness. I could feel that something had changed, there was an eerie kind of quiet, like when the kids have left for the weekend and you don't know what to really do with yourself. I felt as if my kids had left home all over again. I kept staring up at
the "empty nest" in disbelief I cried all that day and the next.

Days passed and I was expecting this mamma robin to return, just to have a last look around "gosh this really was a swell nest, great location, no cats, I'm so glad we re-located when our other nest was torn down."

There was no return trip. There was no "looking back" at what had been there only a few days ago.

A deep sense of peace and acceptance came over me, this family of robins shared my house to teach me the lesson of compete surrender to what is - without looking back, something I had not been able to do.

For years I have been "trying" to let go of any and all attachment to our house. I would always pull back -" after all, my kids grew up here, of course I'm attached, I'm not ready to let go, what if they come back and need a place to live".

This robin family taught me what it means to live fully in the moment without
any attachment to future outcomes. To accept "what is" to do what we must do, take full responsibility and move forward when nature dictates it without any sense of sadness, loss, or looking back.

Several times during the day, I find myself gazing up at the nest where there was so much activity. It is still now. I've thought about getting out our tall ladder and retrieving the nest, bringing it inside and placing it on my bookcase as a poignant reminder to let go. Perhaps I will just leave it where it is, undisturbed. The lesson was learned and now it is time to finally let go.

Somewhere out there a robin sings, her song isn't about self pity, menopause, loss of identity, or about letting go. Her song simply is. If I listen carefully I will always hear her. I now carry her song inside of me.