The Mystery of Swallow

Sky above the Medicine Wheel at Old Frog Pond Farm, Night Photo: Robert Hesse

While in our individual quarantines we hear of mysteries revealed across the globe: In India, people can see the glow of the high Himalayas, fish are swimming again in the dank Venice canals, and above in the night sky, the stars in the milky way glow more brightly. Closer to home, I study tree swallows.

 I’ve been watching an iridescent pair who have taken up residence outside my studio window. They perch on the top of a pine nesting box, one of a dozen my husband, Blase, built from scraps in his woodshop. I have yet to see either bird enter the box to lay eggs. Swallows, like most song birds, don’t lay all their clutch at once. The effort is too much; they lay only one egg a day. During this time of egg laying, the parents don’t immediately start incubating, but wait until the clutch is complete. Of course, I thought, how does she know when that last egg is laid? Maybe the way an artist knows when a painting is finished. It’s intuitive, there’s a satisfaction, a completeness. There’s a whisper, it’s done, it’s out of your hands. Release it, and trust.

This swallow pair must be waiting for the last of the eggs to be laid before they start nesting. They sit throughout the day, though occasionally one will fly, leaving the other alone. Rarely, do they both leave.

I have resisted peeking inside the box to see the eggs, I can only assume the eggs are accumulating. Once incubation begins, the parents will take turns sitting on the eggs for a week. Once born, the babies will remain in the nest for 18 to 23 days. Then, they must develop into expert flyers. For their migration from North America to South America will begin in the fall and will travel 200 miles a day at speeds from 17 to 22 miles per hour. However, storms, exhaustion, and starvation are challenges they will face, and it is estimated that only half will survive the journey.

To my surprise, both swallows suddenly take off. I watch for their return when a bluebird lands on their box, perky, though a little uncertain, making me think it is perhaps its first spring to find a partner and mate. The swallows immediately return, flustered at the sight of this interloper. What to do? Cautiously they fly toward the bluebird, wings shaking, approaching, but not getting too close. I think, why aren’t they dive bombing it? They need to protect their nest. The swallows dare to come a little closer, but the bluebird just twitches. The swallows fly out and back, and out and back, but never touch the bluebird. They don’t seem to be aggressive by nature, but they know they have to do something. Meanwhile, the bluebird doesn’t seem to realize it has landed on a box that belongs to others, or it is simply feigning innocence.

I watch more of their wing wagging, and think, this couple is completely ineffective, ridiculously so. Then, amidst more flutters of feathers, the bluebird departs. The swallow couple land on the top of the box, nudge close to each other, feathers touching, sharing the experience they have survived together. Whew! That was difficult! We best just sit here for a while.

Such mysteries of nature belong to us for we belong to nature; we are part of it. How could we be other? We’re made of the same molecules of water, air, and earth’s minerals. When I become demoralized by the problems on the planet, the greed I witness, the suffering brought on by this new pandemic, I remember that I am this earth, not separate from it. I am this morning’s melancholic rain making circles on the pond. I am the swallows anxious flutterings. Argentina may be 10,000 miles away, but the swallows will connect us. They connect me to you. Isn’t that amazing?

First Swallow, LH

Aerial Bruststrokes

Rain, watercolor, LH

Yet another cold, rainy morning and I sit at my studio window watching tree swallows circle and loop, skim the water, and splash. They could be practicing touch-and-goes as if taking part in some aviation exhibition, but I prefer seeing them as painters dipping their brushes to color the pond and trees.

            I first met swallows soon after I met Blase, my husband. We were sitting on the front step of the farmhouse and I asked, “If you were to be reincarnated as an animal, what would it be?”

            Blase didn’t pause for very long before he said, “A swallow.”

            “A swallow? Why?”

Blase has a deep voice that resonates in his broad chest. He played football during high school and college. He’s physical and strong, so I imagined he would say, a lion, or some impressive creature.

            Blase answered my bewildered look, “Because they are so playful.”

            I didn't know a swallow from a wren but took in his comment as something significant.

Then he turned to me and asked what animal I would choose.

            I replied, “Maybe a lion.” I needed to be strong and able to fight for what I needed not only for myself but for my pride of three children.

            I have completely come around to Blase’s point of view. For the swallows, regardless of the lack of warmth and sunshine, do their thing, eat insects, and dazzle us ground walkers. The secret of the swallows’ contentment seems to be their willingness to fly in any weather, to be a complete expression of joy no matter the circumstances. I know how hard that is to do, especially when strong emotions come up, especially when the suffering and grief I feel increases with every bit of news from around the globe.

Navigating the currents of difficulties that arise is our daily practice. The storms will never disappear, but we learn to be better fliers. Like the swallows, we practice our take-offs and landings, until one sunny day, involuntarily we grab a brush, paint the pond pink, the trees purple, and the sky an emerald green, even when it is raining.

Pink Pond, watercolor, LH