Starting last February, right when I was trying to spend more time with Peter as his health declined, I found the Jackie and Shadow eagle nest. So, naturally, I watched the videos of the bald eagle parents as they incubated their eggs and cared for the eaglets. And, daily, I prayed and prayed for those eaglets because they were ugly as all get out but they embodied and personified my hope.

I knew Peter was never going to recover. I knew the tragic trajectory of his life. But I still had to cling to some form of hope. That no matter what, things would find a way to get better.

And as Peter declined, two of the three eaglets grew and thrived. Daily, I watched the nest as they developed neck muscles to hold up their ping-pong ball shaped heads. Then came the feathers that shifted from white fluff to dirty gray fluff to the sleek flight feathers of future adulthood. And as the eaglets grew, then came the wing exercises as they developed and strengthened their back and wing muscles. First, they learned how to balance and stand upright. Then came the massive flaps of v-shaped winglets that provided no heft and no height. But the promise of future soaring was there. All they needed was time. Feathers. Wind.

The eaglets (named Sunny and Gizmo by local elementary school children) learned how to feed independently. They fought over food and stole from each other. They sauntered around the nest and stood on the rails and sent liquid, gleaming poop shots over the edge (look out below!).

And then came those magical moments when they caught the air. The wind slipped under their adolescent wings and they cupped the rushing air and held onto that moment of space. And then, eventually, with great powerful heaving flaps, they were aloft. And left the nest. And I prayed as they rushed forward and sort of grieved because my time watching them grow had ended. No more nest watching.

As the year turned, I once more started reading the daily posts about Jackie and Shadow as they prepped the nest for the next egg laying season. I cradled that quiet hope that has a new edge to it, a peaked sadness, as the eagles added bunches of dried grass or long, thick sticks. And I was thrilled when two eggs were laid. And fretted and worried when I read that one might be cracked. But it seemed like it wasn’t. It was just a sticky blade of grass.

But it was cracked. And then ravens, while the adults were away, breached the nest. Breached the eggs. And that hope just.

Died.

Ish.

Because I can’t have my hope sitting in a massive nest atop a tree somewhere in California. But I do have my hope perched there. Ish. Because egg-laying season hasn’t ended. And Jackie laid a new egg two days ago. And I watch her as she incubates the egg and I dream about an ugly eaglet sauntering around the nest.

But this love is perilous and ridiculous. So many statistics are against the possible survival of these delicate animals. And daily, my Facebook feed is rife with eagles dying from lead poisoning due to them eating animals felled by lead bullets.

But I cling to this ridiculous love and this ridiculous hope because life must be lived and it must be lived with hope. Becuase without hope. Without love, what is the point? Why bother navigating the trepidations and trials and challenges if it weren’t for the fact that life can be good. That the darkness can be illuminated and the shadows forced into retreat.

I just watched Jackie, pancaked over the egg, do some nest-keeping. And I had the goofiest smile because that ridiculous hope and love warmed my exhausted heart. The seasons are changing and with that comes my season-change-cold/illness. I have a headache. I’m tired. And I’m ridiculously in love with an egg that is thousands of miles away. But here’s to hoping.