Sanctuary
Anja Prescher
Between Nest
and Sky
Six weeks. Ten inches from the window.
The complete story — and the footage nobody else has.
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$47 · yours to keep · no algorithm · no noise
She arrives
She arrives · Day 1
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While he's navigating Zoom marathons, this mama hummingbird is out here literally weaving a home out of spiderwebs and lichen.
I am so hopeful and nervous. I have painted many, many hummingbirds — so having her choose this spot, so close, so visible, is just nothing short of amazing to me.
Maybe she's okay with being painted.
She builds for ten days. I pull my chair close and sketch her. And as I draw the nest I find myself writing into it — hope, love, trust, patience, awe — the same words I am sending her quietly through the glass.
She rotates the nest · Day 3
She shapes it to fit her exact body. She has always known.
The words I sent her quietly through the glass, woven into the nest. That's how this collection began.
About ten days in, something shifts in how she settles. More still. More inward. I want to tell you something while we sit here — my father would have turned seventy-nine this week. I've been feeling his presence. So I send her what I have. You are safe here. Your babies will be safe here.
After about twenty minutes — she flies away. I go to the window and look in.
There is an egg.
I felt seen. And accepted for it.
By a creature that weighs less than a penny.
She built her nest next to this window. And with that — she chose to share her story with the world. She didn't know that. She was just building. Doing the next thing that needed doing.
But we know.
"I would never want to leave that window."
— Instagram comment · week oneThe rain
"The safest place on earth is still under her wings."
— the caption that found 45 million peopleMama in the rain · 45.8M views
She sat through all of it. The nest interior stayed perfectly dry.
And then the rain came. And with that, all broke loose. It really does not rain much in Southern California. When mama built her nest right here, she had not seen rain in this corner of the house. It simply hadn't rained for months.
The birds went quiet. There was something hanging in the air that felt heavy. And then the skies broke. Oh nooooo... will the babies be safe??
I have this red umbrella somewhere in the closet. Should I get it? And then I think about the crow's nest nearby. And mama getting scared. And the umbrella directing the water right onto her. I stay still. I watch. I hold the phone to the glass and film.
is still under her wings.
When the rain lifts I get a glimpse of the babies. Dry. Happy. Clearly back to business — the poop. Something in me completely exhales.
I share the video and go to sleep. When I wake up, forty-five million people have watched her sit in the rain.
45.8 million views · 3.1 million likes · 219,000 shares · National Geographic commented
So yeah. That was the rain. Mama knows best.
"This is a reminder that humans are inherently good, that we are nature, and we are inherently one."
— 330 likesThe peach tree
"This hummingbird series humbled me. You are so blessed."
— Instagram comment · after the fledgingMama and baby · the peach tree · sunset
And they were home.
One evening when the light had gone soft and golden I walked outside and noticed mama flying around our little peach tree. Pirouettes almost. Patient and unhurried. The way she does everything.
I watched her and waited. And then her first baby appeared. They were meeting at the peach tree. Mama fed her — nectar bug soup, the same meal she had always brought — right there on the branch in the open golden air.
Home is wherever mama is.
She carried everything.
"Hopefully they will return next year."
— the comment I think about mostWhatever brought you here —
I hope you found what you were looking for.
— Anja
Is there someone in your life
who needs to sit at this window too?
First light
This chapter is coming soon.
Open eyes
This chapter is coming soon.
The tilt
This chapter is coming soon.
Flying lessons
This chapter is coming soon.
The fledging
This chapter is coming soon.
She arrives
Come in. Sit with me.
She arrives
Come in. Sit with me.
She weighs less than a penny. And she appears on a Tuesday in March with a piece of fluff in her beak like she has somewhere to be.
Mama hummingbird is flying onto her nest and it is already beautiful.
She has chosen a branch ten inches from our window — this specific branch, in this specific camellia tree, in the corner of our garden that gets the golden evening light.
She picked her spot in this camellia tree on the side of our house, right next to the window.
My husband is eating breakfast three feet away at the computer: Customer journeys. Subscription numbers. And she's out here literally weaving a home out of spiderwebs, moss and fluff.
Whaat????
From the comments · while she was building"That mama chose YOU."
— Instagram comment · week one · 19 likes
And with choosing my window — she chose you to see, too.
And with choosing your window —
she chose you to see, too.
"That mama chose YOU."
— 19 likes · and somehow, I believed it