"The Birds' Nest" (summer guest post #1)

Vibes, fingerprints, and the transformative power of being witnessed in community: a poetic-personal essay by Emilie Guttner.

Thanks for being here! On this new moon in Cancer, I’m kicking off a series of guest posts written in response to June’s first installment of “Write & Witness.”

All throughout summer, you’ll be hearing directly from your fellow birds—artists, writers, tenderhearted souls, and divergent humans—on what it feels like to be seen through one’s creative work.

Though these pieces span genre and form, you’ll notice some core revelations carried through each one: that making art is anything but a solitary act; that community is both medicine and inspiration; and that being witnessed helps us tune in to our own expressive powers.

If your creative life would benefit from this type of companionship, consider joining us!

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Dear Bird,

When Emilie started referring to my monthly workshop space as a “bird’s nest,” I did not correct her. You don’t correct a poet!

You don’t correct a poet because the quality of their attention is such that when they look at the world—a desk, a bird, you—it is as if a portal opens in the relational space between beholder and beheld thing, and you understand, with your whole sensory being, that their descriptions are truth.

Believe women; trust poets.

When I read good poems written by skillful, attuned writers, I feel I’m being taught how to embody my senses more fully and apprehend the world more generously.

This is how I’ve felt every single time I’ve read Emilie’s work.

Every. single. time.

The following creative piece, written in response to the first installment of “Write & Witness,” is no exception.

I’m grateful to be confused, at this point, by what Emilie and I’s relationship is. Are we good, good friends? Soon-to-be-published collaborators? Long-lost alien sisters who have also spent time together inside a mentorship container or two?

Yes. Many yeses.

I like when there are many yeses between me and the people around me. I like being many things to, and with, you. And I like what happens when us sensitive weirdos gather in one potent place and let our creativity fizzle and pop in each other’s company.

Emilie writes,

“I come to the nest with my conduit mind, to transmit or protect or convey my feelings as words”

and it seems to me a perfect description of the writing process.

But the part that really gets me is when Emilie describes the feeling of listening to others. She manages to put into language the details of a nearly-cosmic experience—something so familiar, and yet so newly articulated, that I can’t help but “exist differently now, too,” after reading it.

May we all be fortunate enough to exist differently—to be regularly changed by poems, words, and each other.

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The Birds’ Nest

~by Emilie Guttner~

1 - how it feels to be in the group:

arriving in the nest to settle on the twigs & branches, fluff & fiber of Sarah’s gentle prompts

the outline of the session sketched in sand to be traced over with a stick or decorated with seashells or washed away by the wind or a wave

maybe i’ll sit on my idea egg. maybe it’s close to hatching. maybe not. maybe i’ll have a better sense of it after

maybe i’ll take my idea hatchling out to stretch its wings, test its strength in the open sky, get a feel for its wingspan and flight pattern. maybe i’ll have a better sense of it with a bird’s eye view

maybe i’ll come to snuggle into the softness, to rest my idea bones so it can wake up with the sun after a good nights sleep. maybe i’ll have a better sense of it with bright eyes and a bushy tail.

i come to the nest with my conduit mind, to transmit or protect or convey my feelings as words

2 - how it feels to listen to the others:

arriving in the nest to notice it is now a black box theater, a quilting bee, a writers’ retreat. art gets made here. we are the outline of the session and we will fill it with ourselves. to be witnessed a-wonder. to speak ourselves alive.

maybe what you share will grab me by my shoulders and shout into my mouth and fill me with the echoes that help me trace my contours.

maybe it will whisper in my ear in a voice so familiar it could be my own.

maybe it will tug at my frayed edges insistently, begging for my attention.

maybe it will click me into myself and all of a sudden i have clarity and know exactly what you mean, exactly what i mean.

i come to the nest with my fingertipped mind,¹ all nerve endings and haptic sensitivity, to cradle and caress and carefully hold your feelings as words

3 - how it feels to be heard by others:

sitting in the nest and being selected to share next, feeling brave and bolstered by the generosity of the other birds. the vibes are impeccable. i am emboldened.

maybe my voice won’t work because voices can be fickle. don’t worry i can share it in the chat.

maybe i have to hide under my wings or my desk or turn my camera off. don’t worry, my microphone stays connected.

maybe i can make eye contact with the page and be witnessed directly, so the other birds can see my mouth make the words. don’t worry if my lisp slips out. they will understand me anyway.

i come to the nest with my intercom mind, to broadcast to proclaim to promulgate my feelings as words.

leaving the nest i find that the things i shared exist differently now. they are more real now than if i had kept them to myself. i exist differently now too. the fingerprints of the other birds indelible on my feelings as words.

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Emilie loves to make things, especially sense to herself. Poetry is one of her favorite tools, although she’s only just learning how to use it.

🪺 Add your voice to the nest

Emilie and I would love to hear from you! About your own community experiences, your fears or desires around being seen, and your boldest poetic visions:

1. “fingertipped mind” coming from a misheard phrase Ashley Erdely shared during our last session. we birds can’t help but nourish each other.