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So I suppose my podcast is about not coping, but becoming. Because coping means about it's a hardness, there's a rigidity to it, about enduring. And that's never been my story, although I have that in me being the daughter of a marine. Oh my god, I have that in me. We had to sing the Marine song sometimes before dinner. From the halls of Montezumma to the shores of Tripoli. But today my podcast is about finches. Little finches. I have such a hard time with nature. I cannot stand how I, well, I do stand it, how I over-identify with the animals that are around me. I have this wildlife sanctuary or something here in my house now, I think because I live in in the foothills of Southern California, and the fires have driven many of the wild animals into my yard. At one point there were six bucks in my yard eating my roses, just munching away, absolutely happy, well fed. So I made a little sleeping area for them in the side of the yard, and I got a trough and they have water. They've eaten so many roses. My roses are gone. They're a lot of roses and they're gone. But I now have a bobcat and I have finches, lots of coyotes, which can be sort of uh difficult. Rabbit. The bobcat ate the rabbit. But I was okay with that, I think, because not okay. I just didn't like seeing the gutted corpse. But bobcats have to eat, and as my daughter said, nature's nature, circle of life, mom. Amazing, amazing insight. So back to finches. Every year, every year since I've lived in this house, a mama finch has come and built a nest during May or June in a fern outside my window. And I don't want it to happen. I say, no, God, please, I don't want that. I worry so much, I fret, I'll be horrible, I'll I won't sleep, I'll bite my nails. No. Oh, what if, what if, what if? And each year the little babies have flown. Last year they flew on Mother's Day, the little babies, the three of them. But this year, the finch came and made a nest, and there were two eggs in it. And she sat there and sat there and sat there for like three weeks, and the there were no eggs. It was not just an empty clutch. It was, I guess the eggs got taken by a predator. And I really grieved. That just that just did me in to see that mama bravely sitting on a nest that was empty. Boy, do I get that symbolism. That did me in like it is right now. But anyway, it happens just like the haunted little coyote. Oh God, this bothered me. There was a coyote wandering the streets, and I could never get him to stop long enough to have the Humane Society come and capture him, because they would, and they would take him to the wildlife refuge. Pasadena's Humane Society is wonderful. But he had this big head and these haunted eyes, and I'm not just projecting here. He he couldn't like, he wasn't able to see. He was wandering like he was drunk in a way. And he had a little body, and certainly he'd been cast out because he was an outcast. He was deformed. And he just kept showing up. And I would post my friends became sentries. They helped me because if we could keep him in our sight, the Humane Society would come and get him. But none of us could. Well, that one did me in. So I have a hard time with nature. I I'm not okay with letting things be as they are and circle of life. I'm not good. I I grieve. I fret. Anyway. About three weeks ago, a mama Finch came and built a nest on the fake garland around my front door. This is July. I don't think I've ever seen a bird or heard a bird here nest that late. And she is cacophonous. She is chirping and chirping. She was having so much fun with that nest. Well, nobody has been able to, I've not let anybody through that front door for three weeks. I marked it all off with the bungee cord like police, like police tape, and signs that say, no, don't come here. Put things by the garage. And so far, so good. And she is chirping. And then the most wonderful thing, a couple of days ago, I heard little baby chirps. And I just, I'm I'm ecstatic. Okay, I I just really think that Mama Finch came to show me that perseverance works, or I'm not stupid enough to think everything's a big sign. But I will tell you, there are miracles, and animals almost always are the messengers for me. I truly believe that our animals are our familiars, as Native Americans say. So I know my rescued greyhound is definitely here to teach me, and boy has she. I know my boo-boo cat, Desdemona, grumpy, grumpy faced, is here to teach me. She's just so loving. She's so gentle. She doesn't make any noise. I've come home and she's been sitting outside the I don't you can't go outside here because of coyotes, but on this green porch. And obviously she's been sitting there for a long time because she didn't have any food. She just sits quietly and I let her in. Sometimes in the afternoon, if I'm late feeding her or forgotten, an hour or two has gone by feeding time, and she's just sitting, I mean, standing quietly by her bowl. That teaches me a lot, huh? That teaches a lot. This beautiful patience and kindness will get her needs met eventually without squawking. Very different from my tabby T-bone, who was just such a douchebag. Heow wow wow wow. Well, I he's not here anymore. It's not because he's dead, but some wonderful friends adopted him two miles away. Um he was difficult, and he also would beat up my little Persians. He's happy, he's content, he rules the roost with my neighbors, which is good. It was very hard to do, but he he I let him adopt out. So I learn a lot. I've learned so much from my little greyhound. I mean, she's almost like a whippet, but she's a greyhound. She won races. She was, I rescued her from the track in Tijuana. And you know, when you rescue a dog, they know they're grateful. They know, they know everything. And she is this little balletic, beautiful, graceful dog. She's now older and she's got back leg problems and she uh falls a lot. But I'm gonna take care of her till the day she dies, like she's taking care of me. She's twelve and a half, and I've had her since she was four. Nature, animals. What would I do without them? I'm never lonely with my animals. I've chosen a life of solitary. I've chosen a life to be alone. I see people every day, but mostly I'm alone. Very close to nature, very close to God, sometimes sad, sometimes happy. I laugh a lot. I laugh a lot. There's Charlie, who came. There's all my deer and bucks and does and birds and finches and greyhounds and cats and coyotes and bobcats. I mean, it can't get better, can it? It can't. But I just wish I didn't see it so sadly sometimes and take it so personally when things die. I wish I didn't. But I do. I love so big and so deep. That's what my daughter just said about me. She said I love hard and big. I I don't know what that means, but thank God for the animals, for the little finches.