What About Letting It Build a Nest?

Nicolás Dumit Estévez Raful

Taking something into my hands elicits a considerable degree of assertiveness. Doing this preempts any teachings involved in waiting, and seeks to set things in motion of my own accord. In the case of this reflection, I propose to ponder on the possibility of simply allowing dignity to build a nest in my hands without forcing anything. I can already picture the straws for the nest slowly giving shape to a sort of round, but maybe more like oblong abode where the incubation period will unfold. A strand of plastic here and there attests to the fossil fuel-ridden world in which we live. Perhaps a long braid from a discarded wig is added to the weaving, and hopefully it will not cause any harm to the creature of my story: dignity. I have heard from some of my ornithologist friends how a mundane strand of human hair can get tangled in a bird’s leg and sever it, and how these occurrences become more prevalent in areas where beauty salons and barbershops abound. In talking about dignity in connection to beauty I must use caution not to fall prey to some of the outer trappings. This is not to dismiss the value of aesthetic appreciation, and yet the beauty I am interested in is one I can actually feel myself, in myself. With this arises a sense of self-worth that does not need to wait for others to name it, but that nonetheless thrives in relationships, hence in discovering the beauty in me I find the beauty in others as well.

My cusped hands assist in the process of nesting dignity and suggest a container for it. I watch it come and go in its busy forays for materials. From time to time, I am left alone trusting that it will return. When the absences are prolonged, I can hear my inner voice concoct stories of how I am just holding a bunch of junk, and to how I have been duped into thinking that what I have amounts to anything. In those moments I am tempted to drop it all onto the ground, but dignity manages to be back before I act upon my urge. A shimmering strand of purple foil flaps in visual dissonance to the rest of the muted colors that make up the nest: browns and greens, blacks and mauves. This object becomes the focus of my meditation. Eyes open. I recognize in me beauty being tied to curiosity which has taken me places where I have been pushed to find myself in the midst of the most daunting unfamiliarity. On such occasions, I must carve my way out, having gotten lost and left to rely on dignity to meet me at the crossroads–in the dark–candle in hand. I was once living in a place where I was surrounded by a multitude of graves of those fallen in war. I would walk around the site not knowing how to respond to the collective loss. The burden was heavy enough to affect my posture. One day I paused midway on a sidewalk to release the weight from my shoulders while expressing my sorrow for the dead. It was difficult to think of dignity in connection to such devastation, and I had to make an effort to reconnect with it.

Hands can tire easily, especially when assuming a bodily stance that does not come about naturally, but I would still hold onto my posture, hoping dignity would land in my hands regularly. However, I am aware that the nest would run its course and that the comings and goings could eventually stop and with them the sporadic visits. By then, I hope to have gathered the courage to live fully in beauty, hence welcoming dignity as a steady companion and not just as seasonal bird.