Life’s messy.

Sometimes the process of scrubbing, sweeping, and straightening up brings about a grand revelation, a new outlook, an expanded mind, a sense of growth, accomplishment, and/or satisfaction.

Sometimes the mess just needs to be cleaned up. Again.

Rowdy and I usually lose our summer battle with the barn swallows. I’ll think we’ve won the war, armed with his squeaker ball and my leaf blower, but then one particularly persistent pair manage to sneak in and build the nest of their dreams on the light fixture of the hay stall.

The hay cubicle and Biskit’s stall, directly across the aisle, seem to be the attractive neighborhood for avian mosquito monitors, possibly because they’re closest to the barn door, with quick, convenient access to the food source. Chicago’s stall is 10 feet further in, making for a longer, less desirable commute.

During peak season, I’ll sometimes raze the early construction effort above Biskit’s stall and get lulled into believing the demolition has discouraged further new home starts for the summer. But the single-minded barn swallows move in with stealthy silence, determined to pack their mud and feathers on the built-in brooder in my barn.

By the time I spot the finished product, I suspect there may well be eggs in it, and much as I despise the mess, the nuns of my childhood would haunt me forever if I deliberately destroyed a family’s home. So, I wait. I grit my teeth every time one of those birds taunts me with a flyover, convinced they choreograph their barn entries to coincide with my barn chores. As I clean stalls I feel the steely avian glare from the light bulb across the aisle, mocking my lapse of vigilance, declaring their victory.

I wait and watch as they swoop into the barn, crisscrossing just beyond the reach of my manure fork, Rowdy’s squeaker ball or Fennel’s finely honed claws.

About the time I’m convinced my new barn dwellers are actually empty nesters, I’ll hear the soft, steady peeping that is avian infants demanding dinner, and look up at a bunch of baby barn swallows stuffed in a pack of dried mud and feathers, warmed by the overhead light of my small hay stall. How they fit in that nest is a true miracle of nature. Perhaps their incessant squawking translates to “Tell him to stop touching me!” or “No fair, I always have to sit in the middle!” or “You always give her the best bugs”. Somehow, they manage to stay squished in their spots, no loss of life, no accidental over-edges.

The days drag on as the dung piles up. The swallows may be small, but their mess is mighty. Cue the big green tarps to save my hay storage space from weeks of guano, feathers and clots of mud displaced by growing hatchlings.

Finally, the family flies the coop in search of greener pastures, greater opportunity, or somebody else’s barn. I scrape and sweep for one last time and think about the persistence of these plucky little birds. Fiercely determined to build their home, they change their strategy, overcome their obstacles and in the end, accomplish their goal.

There’s a lesson there. Maybe not a grand revelation, but definitely an expansion of the mind – a reminder of the value of tolerance, an admiration for sticking to it, and an appreciation for the satisfaction of figuring things out.

If only they could figure out the housebreaking thing.