I’m afraid Little Bloglet has been neglected again. With starting a new job there’s been a lot to learn and a lot of Excel spreadsheets to create – Oh my goodness how much sense do Windows computers NOT make? – as well as studying for the FGASA Level 3 exam I’ve foolishly signed up for in a few weeks, and still managing to fit in at least three good novels a week, there hasn’t really been much blog time.

But the other day I was waiting to pick up guests at our lodge’s pick up spot, which is a rather lovely cashew orchard (Plantation? Growery? Nursery?) when I heard a great commotion overhead…

It’s spring here, which means the weaver birds are all busy weaving their weavery nests. It’s a heck of a task. Have you ever looked closely at what goes into a weaver nest?

The male weaver literally weaves a complex little house one blade of grass at a time. Without help. Or hands. I have no idea how long it takes him, because I don’t have that kind of patience. But I’m sure it’s no small mission.
The nests are something incredible. Sturdy and homely, lined with soft grasses and reinforced by tougher ones, it’s all threaded together with crazy precision and somehow attached to a branch so well that our east coast wind doesn’t just blow it off right away. Wow. Go weavers, go!

But not everyone appreciates a good weaver nest.

As my attention left the chattering above and returned to the ground, I saw a dozen or so weaver nests strewn about. Rejects.

Yep, if the female weaver isn’t happy with how her starter home construction is going, or the final product doesn’t pass her neurotic inspection, she simply severs it from the tree (or takes glee in destroying it first) and turns her back to let the male weaver try again. From scratch. One blade at a time. Or she just finds a new male weaver, because that’s easier.

Reject Boy will proceed to rebuild and rebuild and if rumors are to be believed, he may build more than SIX nests in a season before he gets it ‘right’ to her standards or is forced to give up. No gene survival for you then…

Goodness me. 

Nature is raw. Nature is delicious.

And this human status we cling to so dearly doesn’t give us many special privileges. I suppose at least as humans, we have the agency to say ‘Whoa. No way,’ and fly to the top of the tree. Drama? No thanks. Not worth it. Survival of the species, you say? Meh. There’s 50 other weavers in this tree alone – they’ll be fine. Fly away into the sunset.

And that’s okay. It doesn’t make the rejected weavers or their talents less beautiful. And while we’re at it, let’s all carry grass around in our mouths. For fun. And crash into each other. And make a lot of noise. And SING! And be gloriously yellow.

But the weavers can’t. Because nature tells them to keep on building. Shame.

I gazed back up into the tree. I wanted to shout at them. Impart some advice. Help them out a little. But then I remembered where I was and realized I had guests nearby and couldn’t just start screaming randomly at birds. So I picked up a rejected nest (because I appreciate it immensely and I can probably use it as a pencil case or something) and turned to leave.

I could only whisper back to the birds as I walked away. “Stay single, little weavers.”