I came to this Tennessee writing residency with a mission: to catch the dawn chorus at full throttle, then watch the birds as the day expands. The chorus seems more elusive here in Tennessee than when I am home in Connecticut.
Why do the birds elude me here? Maybe I’m not getting out early enough. Also, the late October mornings have turned cold. Is the changing season driving many birds even farther south?
When I walk toward bird sound, the singers scatter. Gradually, I decide that my unsatisfying attempts might be remedied by sitting still and letting the birds come to me. I must learn to trust that a bird singing around the bend may eventually make its way to the trees by the porch. These trees are hoary, untended affairs, some sporting just small spurts of lackluster leaves, but the birds have shown up here, some afternoons when I waited.
This morning, one skinny tree hosts a blue jay. Writing him off as mundane, I don’t count his visit a good find. Still, I lazily aim the twin lenses toward my visitor. I turn the knob and zoom into his world. I take in his grasping, dark feet; the pattern of white lenticels on his chosen branch; the curling bark; his striped tailfeathers pointing down.
My perspective softens, as does the rigid set in my arms. The pattern on his wing, alternating blue and black with artfully placed, thick underlines of white, is something to admire. It recalls the Delft plates my mom lined up on the living room lintel, each a careful rendering with stroked in, fine detail. And I can’t fathom how I failed to fully absorb it all these years, but the blue jay sports a handsome black necklace.
My bird guide says blue jays often migrate in large flocks. Imagine all those necklaces heading south! I also learn that they mimic the red-shouldered hawk’s call. How many times have I been fooled? How many confused hawks have played hide and seek with a jay?
As I realize how much more I have to learn about this “mundane” bird, I reflect on what I’ve been reading. In an interview with The Sun Magazine, biologist and writer Robin Wall Kimmerer – a member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation – reflects on the traditional Indigenous perspective: “. . . we are the ‘youngest brothers of creation.’ We haven’t been around very long. . .we should be humble and pay attention.”
Thinking about my birdwatching exploits, it does feel like I occupy a comparatively low rung of the creature hierarchy. Like some hapless Aesop’s Fables character, I initially dismissed the jay, aspiring to a more “impressive” encounter. I expected my brother bird to keep still, to wait and pose while I adjusted my scope and took notes. I must chuckle at my resistance to simply sitting, waiting, and watching—I’ve recently led two events focused on being still in nature and the wonder it is sure to yield.
I am hungry for facts as I contemplate the jay—I want to know everything about this species, right now. I remember Kimmerer’s interview, where she explains how an Indigenous elder might see the probing scientific method as disrespectful. Why?
“. . . the organism being questioned has its own agency in the world. It is rude of us to prod this sovereign being and ask: How come you’re doing that? How come you’re living that way? How come you’re that color?. . .” (She lists more questions, sounding like a vexingly inquisitive 4-year-old). Kimmerer adds that this kind of pushy questioning isn’t a great way to sow a mentee-mentor relationship. Finally, as if stepping from the page to counsel me, she notes, “Patience and commitment are the key to learning from a being or a place.”
The next day, I keep my commitment and again watch my brother blue jay, who shares the nickname of my departed older brother John—his friends called him Jay. The bird sees me too, cocking his head in my direction at intervals and then looking away.
John and I never got our last walk together—we had planned to walk across the Connecticut River on the tall swing bridge not far from his tiny apartment, look down from the peak of the span. In the dark realm I inhabited after his fatal overdose, I clung to John’s final, unusually joyful phone message, relaying how much he was enjoying a simple pleasure: tangerines together with some Perrier. That message had captured a rare moment of “enough” in a life that was plagued with a deep, never-satisfied craving.
We humans often ignore the lessons that more enlightened creatures–-as defined by Native traditions—have for us. History confirms we don’t learn well from fellow humans, either. That’s how it went with John and me—at least while he was still alive. I regret every moment I didn’t really see him, every moment I made assumptions about his character and motives. I regret every time I had been eager to advise, but not to listen. Why couldn’t I just accept him as he was?
As I watch the jay in his tree, I silently transmit these thoughts in his direction, nurturing a hope that the bird knows a conduit, can somehow communicate with John in his new, indiscernible realm. I feel comforted watching the bird. Somehow, I feel more connected with John.
I feel humbled by the bird’s beauty, by the chance to witness the goings-on of his daily life. I don’t feel ashamed about the foibles of my humanity, just reminded I have a long way to go.
I’m realizing that deep learning—the kind I want more of—isn’t purely an intellectual pursuit. There’s an undercurrent of knowing that precedes linear, analytic thought. It feels sure and real in the rare moments I step into it. I felt it when the jay helped me connect with my brother. I seem more apt to find deeper understanding and a sense of peace when I pay attention to my big brother and sister animals and plants.
My best hope for birdwatching also applies to life, overall—to learn to sit still – and quietly – for longer stretches, and to honor this practice above the all-too-human, agenda-driven hunt for “progress.” Stillness, with an attitude of listening and watching with open mind and spirit, will be a lifelong pursuit, marked by small victories as well as backslides.
With time, I hope I will welcome every visitor, whether a familiar face or tantalizing stranger. I want to recognize beauty with my eyes and ears but also at the level of spirit, even when fellow creatures are dressed in ordinary or even off-putting wrappings.
Revering the wisdom of other creatures, I want to bring my fellow humans into the circle, too—into the place where I watch with soft eyes and generous anticipation. Into the place where judgment feels far off, where not every question has a perfect and immediate answer.
Katherine Hauswirth is a writer and amateur naturalist finding reasons to be hopeful about the natural world. Learn more at First Person Naturalist.
