A Person Who Watches Birds
Below the rough-barked ashe juniper’s branches that spread over my rocky patio, bird feeders, seed cylinders, thistle sock, and birdbath stand ready each morning to welcome the avian harbingers of autumn. That old tree resides just across the barbed wire boundary of the adjacent ranch, but the evergreen generously shares its shade, providing a safe shelter from sun and predators. The summer’s intense heat is abating, and my yard is slowly switching from a survival mode to one of growth. The birds are also thriving, and the limbs shake with their presence. Throughout the long hot summer, the birdbath was the main attraction, a rare water source in the surrounding dry acres. With the easing temperatures and puddles from occasional rain showers providing water, the birdfeed is now the main draw. Chickadees, tufted titmice, cardinals and wrens dominate the morning scene. Here and there an avian surprise flits among the evergreen branches and dives down for a morsel of sunflower seed or cranberry. A sturdy woodpecker eschews its typical fare of bugs and vies for a spot on the feeder as cardinals try to push it aside. A tiny yellow-breasted finch appears, though it ignores the thistle-filled sock hanging in the tree. Even the field birds that seldom visit feeders gather nearby: Two large dove stroll along the fence rail and jump to the ground to snap up the seeds strewn there. A jay visits, its navy blue body dwarfing all other birds before it pauses to take a sip of water. After perusing the flock, it flies to a nearby live oak, disdaining the easily available feeder food. The jay prefers to gather its own seeds and nuts that are plentiful now in the woods. It is not only the birds that congregate, for another early riser lingers there, gathering energy for the coming day.
It is I, a person who watches birds.
It was my mother who instilled in me a love for watching birds. She fed them and noted her sightings, writing the dates in the margins of her well-worn copy of Birds of North America. She delighted in the commonplace sparrows as well as the rare appearance of a painted bunting. Her knowledge grew during the final decades of her life, after the whirlwind of work and family responsibilities abated. A seldom-indulged pastime became a regular ritual as she observed her feeder from the easy chair carefully placed near a corner window. As my own pace of life shifts, nowadays I follow in her bird tracks, and though I’ve never kept a diary of bird sightings, my curiosity piques with each wing’s flutter. The birds are generous with their tutelage. During our too-rare visits, Mother and I spent a few hours watching birds. I remember distinctly the day I commented on her expertise as a birdwatcher. She quickly set me straight. She was not, she declared firmly, a birdwatcher. She was a person who watched birds. A birdwatcher was someone altogether different from her. A birdwatcher was knowledgeable and dedicated. A birdwatcher might join a club and compare notes with fellow enthusiasts. A birdwatcher ventured outdoors with binoculars swinging from her neck, intent on discovering a heretofore unseen flicker or bluebird. A birdwatcher passionately pursued her avocation and diligently added entries to her life list. A person who watched birds, according to Mother, was a bird of a different feather. Equally delighted to see the same birds day after day as to sight a rare species, a person who watched birds did not set goals, keep score, and presume to be an expert. A person who watched birds observed with fresh delight each time a house wren built a nest in the garage rafters, or a crow squawked stridently in a nearby hay field. A person who watched birds was just as amazed the hundredth time a hummingbird buzzed around the red salvia bush as she was at her first glimpse of the West Texas-based pyrrhuloxia during her mid-70s. A birdwatcher might be justifiably proud of her accumulated knowledge, write a birdwatchers’ column, or plan a trip to South Texas to spot the endangered whooping cranes. A person who watched birds could find the same passion and pleasure as she discovered a tiny blue (and empty) robin’s egg under the elm tree and envisioned a fledgling beginning its spring journey towards maturity.
Mother’s self-defined label did not arise from false humility or a disdain for more serious birders as she released herself from expectations or rules. She set high standards in her professional life as a skilled administrative assistant. She was an excellent seamstress, artist and needlewoman, and a well-regarded book reviewer. In the realm of bird watching, however, she resolutely clung to the edges of expertise, never turning her pastime into a passion, never aspiring to transform this simple pleasure into anything weightier than a respite from routine. Asa person who watched birds, she took daily delight in the colors, the shapes, and the habits of birds, regardless of whether sightings were rare or commonplace. Awestruck by their abilities, laughing out loud at their antics, or touched by their tender ministrations to their young, this person who watched birds nurtured the gift of wonder, never losing a gratefulness and appreciation for those beings who graced the world with intricate beauty. Watching birds was worthy in its own right. It required nothing more than time and the patience to be still, to observe carefully and to relish the exquisite aviary outside one’s own back door.
The sky is brightening from peach to blue, and a cool breeze shakes some turquoise juniper seeds onto the patio. They join the hundreds already laying there. I sip a hot cup of coffee and await the morning complement of birds that are just beginning to arrive. These days, I’m following a newly kindled interest in drawing, and I am more likely to have a sketchbook and pencil than to make notes in Mother’s old field guide that gathers dust on my bedroom bookshelf. Any questions I may have about bird visitors are answered by a quick trip to Google-land. My patio is stocked with some specialized bird seed and more sophisticated anti-squirrel feeders than those my mother used. Yet, here I am, just as she was, stunned by extraordinary beauty on an ordinary day. I sit and watch and wonder, and imagine that I feel a gentle presence nearby. I seem to hear an excited laugh when a cedar waxwing swoops onto the scene, perching partially hidden in the foliage. I do not question that feeling, nor doubt that echo of laughter. I know from whence they come. For I am the holder of a legacy, the recipient of a curious mind and a humble spirit. I claim no special knowledge save that of this inherited wisdom: Nature spreads a lavish feast before us, day after day, season after season. When we choose to partake of it, our spirits are nourished. Hovering above the fencerow, perched at the edges of the birdbath or clinging tenaciously to a seed column, the birds display their daily exploits for all to enjoy, whether expert or amateur, experienced or novice. It is my role to joyfully bear witness to wonder and affirm its eternal value to any who also choose to wait and watch. I stay awhile until the chores of the day and the summer-like heat of the sun drive me indoors. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, I’ll take up my spot again and sip my coffee, free of the need to compete or compute, to search or to study. I gladly carry this legacy as fragile as birds’ wings and as enduring as the juniper that shelters us, my bird visitors and me. I am ever grateful to be…
A person who watches birds.
Needlepoint photo of birdfeeder by my mother, JAG
