I realized the other day that I wasn't telling the whole story of why I was so keen on having the house finches nest on my front door this spring.
In July of 2006 I transferred with my job from Chicago to San Francisco. My boyfriend and I were originally supposed to move to the Bay Area together. The relationship came to an abrupt halt before the move was complete.
So at the last minute, not knowing a soul and having only been through San Francisco once for a day (as an adult), I went ahead with the move.
I didn't have a place to live already lined up. Mostly because of the timing of the breakup, but partly because it's typical for me to leap before I look.
Despite that minor detail, I was excited for the opportunity to live in the Bay Area. After a couple weeks of motel rooms I found an apartment in San Rafael, across the Golden Gate Bridge to the north of the City. The complex sat at the top of a hill. My apartment was on the third floor, near the back of the complex. Despite the potential for sweeping views, the windows in m apartment faced onto the parking lot.
I didn't care. I was reeling from the sudden end of the relationship after four years, and the betrayal that led to the end of the relationship in the first place. At the same time, I was enjoying having time and space that was my own again after four years. My inner gypsy was delighted to have a new part of the country to live in and explore.
And so I began to settle into my new place and my new job. It was great. Every day, twice a day, I got to commute across a stunning, iconic miracle of architecture that is known around the world. The five-dollar bridge toll inbound to work was steep, but most days I felt it was worth it just for the amazing views of the Marin Headlands, Angel and Alcatraz Island, the Presidio, San Francisco, and the Bay.
Only one thing was out of kilter. I was plagued by insomnia. The insomnia had been recurring off and on for two years, ever since I'd moved from Arizona to Illinois to help my Mom care for my Dad as he was dying of cancer.
After Dad's passing, it had taken my internal clock a long time to reset. Now, whether from the new time zone, grief over the relationship's sudden end, or any number of other factors, the insomnia was back in all its wide-eyed glory.
At first I was frustrated. I would get home from work, fix dinner, and find myself getting sleepy before nine o'clock. I'd be in bed asleep by ten, but wide awake again between two and three with no chance of going back to sleep. Other times I would not get sleepy at all, regardless of how tired I was.
I tried everything but drugs. Tossed and turned. Took hot showers. Played solitaire on the computer. Read so many books the plot lines blurred together.
Finally I quit fighting and gave in to the awakeness. The tiny, odd-shaped dining area between the kitchen and living room had a large window. I'd placed one of my cushy armchairs in the corner next to it. When I woke up, regardless of the time, I'd make my way to the chair, cover myself with a soft afghan, and wait for dawn. Sometimes I'd write in my journal. Mostly I just stared out at the little portion of the world immediately in front of me.
The landscaping of the complex included many mature maple trees. Two or three of them stood just outside my building. Sitting at my window, I was at eye level with the midsections of those trees. Their large starfish leaves created a screen between me and the parking lot. It was easy to pretend, especially in those long hours before dawn, that I was in the tree.
The birds in the complex arose even earlier than I did. Each morning when I took my place in the chair and pulled up the blinds, they were already chattering softly in the trees. As the pre-dawn sky lightened, their activity and volume levels increased, peaking just after sunrise. I began to notice and listen for the calls of the different birds. To assist in identification, I picked up an Audubon Guide to West Coast species.
Soon I realized that there was a gang of small brown birds, some with brilliant red markings, regularly inhabiting the tree immediately outside my window. My guide book informed me that they were purple finches. Morning and evning I was treated to their burbling song and lively antics amongst the swaying leaves of the maple.
I began to look forward to spending time at the window observing these bright little fellows. My cat, Oliver, would perch on the back of the chair and watch with me.
Gradually my heart lifted. With the help of the finches, I emerged from my post-breakup funk.
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