Bird Call

Getting to know the birds in our yard and the woods has been a refuge for me this year. How is it possible that I knew so few by name, and especially, by their calls? Slowly we wake up, I guess, each in our own time, to see what's been around us all along. It's not unlike getting to know the plants over the years. Just like the plants, the birds seem to show themselves, I feel like they almost wave at me when I finally SEE them--"Yes, hello, I've been here the whole time. So nice of you to join the party.” (They're so generous that way, no judgement for my lack of awareness.)

It took me most of the Winter to get to know the mixed flock of birds that visits our yard every day and then to recognize their calls when I was walking in the woods: Chickadees, Juncos, Wrens, several different kinds of Woodpeckers, Towhee, and the sweet little Golden-Crowned Kinglets who appeared even on the coldest days, their chirps like little tinkling bells as they moved through the trees.

With the new Spring songs, it's Chickadee and Wren who I've been noticing the most just recently. Winter Wren's Spring call was a surprise. Who is that coming from? I thought. And then I saw Winter Wren on a low branch singing away, chubby and full-throated like an Opera singer.

Chickadee's escalating whisper of a call is so beautifully eerie, I can't help but try to mimic it. It's almost involuntary, I find myself whistling quietly in reply as I walk through the woods. Piper doesn't even seem to notice, like it's natural for me to join the chorus. But Towhee still has a special place in my heart. I smile when I hear that squawking mew-like call, sometimes accompanied by a rustling as he noisily tosses leaves aside, foraging for food below. Often I catch sight of his black feathers and white spots, and occasionally a red eye as he cocks his head, looking just a little bit crazy.

For a short while, I forget all that's going on. It's not like life was ever certain, but there's so much room for the imagination to dwell only on terrible things right now. Being jovial is just denial. But being aware of what's around feels like a therapeutic escape. To be "informed" is often to imagine the worst right now, to let anxiety carry me out of the present. And it often does, more than I would like. It's not the part of me I'm proud of, but it is part of what we all share; the fear, the vulnerability. The small mind does exist. But so does the big mind, the awareness that doesn't judge that it took me this long to get to know the birds.