For years, home had always been on the corner of Cascade Street and Burns Avenue, in a small town outside Portland, Oregon. However, when I turned 18 and decided to leave the country for a short stint, my idea of home extended past the four walls of my parents’ house. These days, I consider home a place where I know the exact contents of the fridge, where I have a place to sleep, and where I can say 97 percent of the time whether the toilet paper rolls from the top or from the bottom. While the standards I set for my definition of home decrease, the number of homes I inhabit increase. I find myself having to clarify when announcing “I’m heading home,” if I mean my parents house, my current abode two towns over, or my best friend’s couch. I’m about to leave all of those “homes” behind and embark on a search for a new home, in a new city, and in a new state.

Eagles build their nests, their homes, in nine layers. The first layer consists of thorns, followed by a layer of twigs, then more thorns. The fourth layer is made up of soft grass, then leaves and moss, then more thorns, grass, moss, and finally the eagle’s own downy feathers. The eagle has his work cut out for him. But why go through all the trouble while other species of birds use twigs and colorful pieces of garbage? Eagles build their nests high above the ground, like on the side of a cliff or the top of a tall tree. In this system, predators can only ambush from below. Since the outermost layer of the Nest is made with thorns, a snake or a wild climbing a tree in the hopes of catching a eaglet, will only catch a mouth full of thorns.

All the layers, especially the thorns, aid in flight lessons between father and baby eagle. The lessons start when the male eagle pushes his little ball of fluff out of the nest. The eaglet tumbles all the way down like a cliche nursery rhyme only to be saved by its father, who swoops in at the last second. The father continues this exercise until the fledgeling learns to use its wings. Once papa eagle is sure his little bundle of joy can fly on its own, he reveals one last trick. The eagle dad removes the soft and squishy bed of moss, grass, and feathers from the nest, leaving only a bed of thorns. He then positions his poor, unsuspecting eagle offspring on the side of the nest and gives him a nudge. The eaglet, now fully capable of flying by itself, jumps back into the nest, fearful of the fall and its own abilities. What nasty surprise does it find upon re-entering the nest? A bed full of thorns, of course. In that moment, whatever scary challenges the outside world might hold becomes preferable to the thorns waiting inside. It is then forced to fly and soon finds that its wings, which were once made of fluff, now easily hold its weight. The eagle, like me, has to extend its idea of home. It trades in its cushy nest for the open sky, and at that point, wouldn’t trade a life in the air for anything.

Now, I can safely assume the majority of our parents didn’t replace our mattresses with thorns as soon as we learned to drive, but the same principle stands. Parents and children alike have to reach an agreement that we, the little fluffy eaglets, will one day tumble awkwardly from the nest. We get a few practice rounds -- extended curfews, keys to the car, part-time jobs -- but our parents are there, ready to swoop in just in case our wings need more time to grow. The day when we feel that nudge, whether physical or metaphorical, always arrives. The day we leave home we frantically flap our wings until we realize the air beneath them provides us with a tool, rather than a long and painful fall.

That first hurdle prepares the eaglet, now a fully grown eagle, for a challenging life full of struggle. Because of their learned tenacity, eagles face challenges in ways we don’t fully grasp -- as rewards. Eagles are the only birds known for flying directly into a storm. They see an incoming storm and rejoice in it. While chickens and pigeons are fleeing in fear of the heavy winds and rains, the eagle opens its wings and lets the incoming torrents lift it above the clouds. There it can soar above the storm. Maybe it’s the only bird big and strong enough to withstand the strong winds. In those first flight lessons during the first few weeks of life, an eagle teaches its own child to welcome the outside world and embrace its problems head on. They set the example for the rest of us.

Life outside our nests is not pretty. Life is cruel and calculating and it challenges us in ways we don’t expect. Thank goodness our version of leaving the nest, whether we step willingly or are pushed, doesn’t involve a long, empty fall. The eagle’s experience really puts ours into perspective. Some might argue that the same words used above to describe nature -- cruel, cold calculating -- might also sum up high school, or puberty, but those days are over and behind us. The open air and the long fall awaiting us outside the nest are also beautiful, powerful and awe-inspiring. It’s up to us which version we see.