Preparing for possibility

   This is the time of year for babies around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. There are ducklings and goslings, to name just a couple, while other birds are preparing for their newborns, including herons and small back birds whose name I do not know, but who do a great job of harassing squirrels and human passersby who venture too close to their nests.
   Most of the people that I see on my daily walks marvel at the infant and juvenile animals there, but I am much more interested in the gathering, building and waiting than the 'finished products'. I first started to realize this when on multiple occasions I saw a large bird (a heron) clumsily land on a branch some distance from the tree it's normally associated with, and a minute or so l later taking flight again, this time with some sticks in its mouth. There was something about this image that stuck with me.
   It would be easy to surmise that I appreciate and feel more comfortable with process than with ending, but the reality is that little could be farther from the truth. I am very uncomfortable with unfinished things, and do all I can to avoid them as often as possible.
   One could also say that I am drawn to the building and construction because it is a creative endeavor, like an artist whose art is only meaningful for them as an act of creation. That wouldn't be true for me, either. I have some history as a visual artist, and there too, I generally preferred finishing the artwork to the making of it, though there were times that the creation aspect was fun and educational.
   It's strange then to me that what I'm drawn to here at the lake doesn't strike me as preparation as much as something else, something more like readying for possibility. This notion feels like freedom to me. In it lies the hope that I can feel more unencumbered by limits, and more filled with the excitement of possibility.

The home base of the small, harassing black birds.