The thing with feathers
We have a reputation.
The term “bird watcher” seems to imply someone overdressed in khaki fatigues, wearing a floppy hat, with an enormous pair of binoculars drooping around his or her neck, a notepad in hand, in which she or he, in ecstasy, scribbles down the latest sighting of the yellow-bellied sapsucker. Profession: librarian or accountant. I mean, really, who would spend a day squinting up into trees for a possible furtive glimpse of a bird when they might be off riding their bike, walking on the beach or even reading a book?
I would. When I lived in New York City, I loved the ten or so days when birds were migrating north (spring) and south (fall). You could go to Central Park and see up to fifteen or twenty species of birds in a single day — ten or more species of warblers alone. Birds, and most especially the songs of birds, make me feel optimistic. Emily Dickinson used birds as a metaphor. (The title of this post is hers.) These days, like all of us, I sorely need a strong dose of optimism. At 75, even more so. With birds, I get that. When I was a boy growing up in in southeastern Virginia, I would wake up to the sweet cadences of the Song Sparrow. Whenever I hear that song, I carried back to a simpler time.
You can ask the question, why do birds sing? I’m sure there’s an answer, probably about attracting a mate. But how do you answer the question, why do birds sing beautifully?
The main thing that separates us from birds, of course, is that they can fly. Not only that, they make a mockery of gravity, with sharp dips, pivots, swoops and dives. It’s no wonder that in a dream if you’re flying, it always feels exhilarating. In therapy, this brings a smile to the therapist’s face. It’s inevitably a positive sign. I think that’s what we want to do with our life — to soar, beautifully. Birds remind us of that worthy possibility.
For me, it’s the hues of these birds that make me crane my neck, searching high in the branches for hours. To see, even for a few seconds, the deep oceanic blue of an Indigo Bunting or the fierce black and yellow of a Magnolia Warbler — my heart leaps up. These photographs go some way to explaining the thrill, but you have to catch the glimpse in the wild, catch the appearance of the bird perched high in the tree — so much color in so small a form! — to get the full charge.
Sidebar: Sometimes, there is an advantage in going to the dentist. In the waiting room a while back, I found a copy of National Geographic. In it, there was a elegiac, concerned essay by Jonathan Franzen, “Why Birds Matter.” I urge you to read it. I actually think he answers that question, in prose that soars like the creatures he describes.
I live in New Orleans now. When I talk to people about Hurricane Katrina, time and time again I hear the same thing, “It was so quiet after the storm. You didn’t hear a single bird singing.” How, then, could you feel even the slightest bit of optimism? I can’t imagine. Because, in Emily Dickinson’s words, the thing with feathers is — hope.
