When I moved into my last apartment, I noticed a small crevice in the back stairwell outside my bedroom window that a family of pigeons occupied. Their own little pigeonhole. As I fell asleep, I could hear the pigeons squawk. Sometimes it sounded like the mother pigeon was laying an egg. I even saw remnants of eggshells on the stairs and occasionally could hear the squeaking of baby birds.

Now, it’s been almost a year since I moved out of that apartment. Just a few months before packing, I noticed the crevice had been nailed shut with a 2x4 covering the opening. I could still, just barely, see the abandoned nest inside. As for the birds, well, I still saw many pigeons perched on and flying around the back stairwell. They’ve likely moved on to another crevice to squawk near someone else’s window, although I sometimes wish they would come back to me.

I grew to admire these birds over the six years I lived there, and how quickly they adapt and change course when needed. The name “Pigeonhole” serves as a reminder to myself to adapt to changing circumstances; to resist the urge to box myself in.

For a metaphor that probably won’t hold its own: Through making these books, I’m offering the basic structure or the bones or ✨the nest✨ and I can only ask that the nest gets filled. Whatever form that takes is up to you! :)