Dearest Friend,
There's a little stretch of marsh on Magnolia Isle where the live oaks lean toward the water, their branches reaching out as though they're trying to hold on to something. I found it one day while walking down a moss-covered path.
Just beyond the last bend, tucked between the tall grasses, there's a nest.
All summer, it was a busy place. Birds coming and going. The constant flutter of wings and the rustling of reeds. Now summer has given way to chilly days, but I still walk the path.
Then, the other morning, I realized it was quiet.
The nests that sat so proudly guarded all those months were still there, woven carefully between the branches. The marsh grass still swayed in the breeze. The tide continued its slow journey in and out.
But the birds were gone.
I wonder sometimes, probably irrationally, if the marsh notices these things. If the trees feel the absence of the creatures they once sheltered. If the branches miss the weight they carried during that short season of nurture. If the wind remembers the sounds that used to fill the air.
Or perhaps that's just something we humans do.
We notice the empty chairs around the table. The bedrooms that stay a little too tidy. The conversations that don't happen quite as often as they used to. We notice when familiar rhythms change.
There's something tender about a place that once held so much life becoming quiet.
But standing there beside the marsh, looking at that empty nest, I couldn't help noticing something else.
The nest hadn't lost its purpose simply because the birds had learned to fly. It had done exactly what it was meant to do. And all around it, life was still unfolding.
The tide keeps coming in. The herons stand patiently at the water's edge. And farther down the marsh, another bird was already gathering twigs.
Perhaps that's the thing about the seasons we long to hold on to. Their beauty isn't diminished because they didn't last forever. Sometimes the most beautiful thing we can do is love something well enough to let it become what it was meant to be, without clinging, without resisting growth and change.
And then, when the quiet comes, allow ourselves to discover what might bloom in the space that's been left behind.
I think about this often now, in the middle of what everyone laughingly calls "the sandwich generation." It's bittersweet at so many turns, and sooner than I'd wish, I know the sounds and rhythms around me will change. I hope to remember to be fully present now, to appreciate each moment for what it is, and to let it leave its mark.
Until next time, I'll be here on Magnolia Isle, watching the tide come in.
Until next time,
—A Friend from Magnolia Isle
P.S. Is there a season of life you wish you could visit just one more time? I think we all have one.
