For the birds

What a few sparrows can teach us

Today’s accompanying tune: “Better Days” by Birdtalker

A red-tailed hawk flies low during a hike in Orange County last December. My whole group stood silent and still for minutes while watching it circle overhead.

The house sparrows are back. Each morning, they convene in the yard, pecking through the remnants of the spring weeds before the sun bakes everything into hay. They start in the front, weaving through the flowering bushes and low desert plants, swiping their beaks over the ground in a rhythmic tune. Hop hop swipe. Hop hop swipe. They join the finches, the doves, the pigeons. The occasional oriole, the hummingbirds, the cactus wrens. They coexist happily, chirping away on their search for food, water, or shade. They’re among the most ubiquitous birds in our flock, but also the most understated. Their brown wings fold tightly over their dusty gray bodies, a mask of white and black around their faces the most distinguishing feature. They chirp, sometimes sing. But mostly, they are simply here, existing in the skies and the trees and the dirt. They splash in the water, shake their little tail feathers, perch delicately on the stems of weeds that have no business bearing any weight at all. And for all of that, I find them utterly delightful.

Birding is a hobby set aside for those with some acquired decades. At least that’s what I’ve been told — retirees sitting at the bank of a river with a set of binoculars and nothing but time, craning their necks for a glimpse of an elusive “life lister” sighting. It requires patience, time, stillness. When I was hiking in Denali last summer, a group of two retirees I met wanted nothing more than to sit and watch the birds, eager to check off a few species they wouldn’t see anywhere else in the world. It was the entire reason for their trip — they traced their targets’ migratory routes from the Southeast to the far Northwest, eager to witness the sky full of sandhill cranes or, even better, a merlin. Their joy at the simple idea of a sighting was inescapable — it’s hard to not buy in, to witness something so minutely spectacular and feel the same sense of awe. For a minute, the world is magnified and expanded all at once.

Birding skills, however, are not the sole territory of those above a certain age threshold. There is no rule book, though in certain circles that is a contested fact. Anyone can look out their window, listen, wait. Even in times of turbulence, times full of business and schedules and deadlines, the birds are there, a distraction and meditation in one small feathered package. What birding is, at its core, is the act of noticing — looking for small differences on small creatures, watching their movements, listening for small changes in tune that differentiate one species from another that otherwise looks the same. It resists the burning need to be productive, it rewards patience and an eye (or ear) for detail. It’s an individual experience made that much better when done with others. It sparks joy — birds are inherently playful creatures and I dare you to not crack a smile when two sparrows are flying rings around each other or a hawk rides the thermals with the grace of the most accomplished ballet dancer. In a society that represses joy and rewards competition and productivity, birding feels like an act of resistance, a way to reclaim that which has been conditioned out of us.

Birds can fly, but humans have the capacity for wonder. When we lose wonder, we lose a bit of our humanity, our ability to appreciate that which surrounds us. Birds, I would argue, are an easy vessel in which to put all that wonder. They fly! There are so many species, so many colors, so many songs! Some are small and cute, others awesome in their size and power. They are current-age dinosaurs, for crying out loud. They are able to migrate over thousands of miles in every type of weather, sometimes at night, using mechanisms we don’t even understand. They are found on every continent on the planet, in every ecosystem. Nearly every person, in every corner of the world, has seen or heard a bird at one point in their life. Humans learned to fly by studying birds. We mapped early expeditions by following birds’ migratory routes. We measure distance, still, by the distance a crow can cover. It seems, then, that birds have always held our wonder in their clutches. What has changed, then, is us.

Ed Yong, an accomplished writer who I would argue is among the best science writers out there, goes even further. While working on his third book and continuing his ground-breaking reporting on people experiencing long COVID, Yong took up birding. You might say he was predisposed to the hobby — his second book focused heavily on different bird species that have evolved different senses to thrive in their respective environments. Before, he had really only regarded exotic birds in far-flung locations as worthy of a birding trip — it was enticing to see penguins, toucans, or ostrich more so than watch the red-tailed hawks circle above his home in the Bay Area. But as time and burn out wore on, he stayed closer to home. He says he reveled in the discovery he found in a place that had previously felt saturated. His sense of wonder returned, borne on the wings of a small, local, otherwise innocuous bird. He then had the idea to bring others with him, to guide them back to their senses of wonder without leaving town. He reached out to a community of folks experiencing long COVID, many of which felt isolated and were struggling. He took them birding. Patience. Time. Stillness. He wrote about the experience more beautifully than I ever could, so instead I will share his words:

My favorite birding moments often involve stillness. I stand in front of a single tree, watching a conveyor belt of warblers passing by. I sit at a shoreline, scanning through large groups of foraging shorebirds. I lean against my car at night, listening for owls in the darkness. At those times, with my body rooted and my senses fully engaged, I feel a peculiar blend of serenity and adrenaline, of presentism and disconnection. And during one such moment, I thought: This would be perfect for people with long COVID.

And so, we return to the sparrows. To the small birds without any bright colors, without a remarkable song, that are not rare or exotic in any way. Their simple presence is enough to spark joy, their existence all that is required to brighten my morning, capture my attention, ignite my wonder. This is not a hobby only for retirees with time to spare and money to spend on far-away trips. It is a small slice of wonder present in every day, for every person, regardless of their abilities. It is healing, for ourselves and for a society that has decided to only move fast and break things. It is soft, still, patient. It is so full of joy that it threatens to overwhelm, so rarely does it happen otherwise. I am so grateful for the privileges that have allowed me to see flamingos in Patagonia, ptarmigan in Alaska, robins in the Midwest, ospreys in the mountains, woodpeckers on the utility pole near my home. Each one has inspired nothing but wonder and awe, and I am more human for it. But mostly, for the sparrows that visit, that raise their families in the eaves of my roof and bathe in the dust of the yard. For making each day better than the last, simply with their presence.

Here’s to stillness, slowness, and wonder. Here’s to the birds.

- Megan