More Cowbird
I always thought bird watching was a boring hobby practiced by elderly couples with matching pith helmets and khaki shirts, kind of the diametric opposite of punk rock, and thus an activity I would never engage in. However, this week the kids and I and P Dad went to Bald Eagle State Park for a couple of days. The trip was P Dad’s birthday present; he loves bird watching and the inn we stayed at is known for its birding opportunities. We had a room with a balcony overlooking the lake. Every morning and night hundreds of birds would fly across the meadow below the balcony; we could observe not only their color and markings but their flight patterns. I’d never really “bird watched” before, at least not in the official sense. As it turns out it’s an incredible opportunity for mindfulness. To pick out a bird in a varied landscape takes a fair amount of concentration, as does noting its characteristics. Birds of certain families are remarkably similar; there are about twenty things that look like a goldfinch, I found out. Add to that the fact that males and females have different plumage (the female red-winged blackbird is brown, not red or black) and this too varies according to season, and you get a sense of the complexity of trying to correctly identify a bird (the stated point of bird watching), which by nature is a creature that only holds still for about thirty seconds at a time.
cedar waxwing
The simultaneous wide-angle and zoom focus was a different level of awareness than I’d ever experienced, and also an activity which required me to concentrate in such a way that it chased my usual brain chatter right out of my head. And birds! They’re amazing when you think of it; tiny flying supercharged heartbeats. When I really looked for them, scanning first with my naked eye then field glasses, the whole vista came alive. I saw eastern bluebirds, who looked like puffy little robins wearing strange, electric blue coats. And bright, bright yellow finches, that, in flight, looked like bits of yellow cloth zooming across the meadow. The tree swallows had iridescent blue backs but the prettiest thing about them was how they swooped high, then almost to the ground to catch insects, flying W’s. I saw more birds than I could identify, even with constant reference to the field guide: cedar waxwings, gulls, sparrows and the ubiquitous cowbirds – plain except for their cool fanned tails. Then, canoeing on the lake we saw three great blue herons, a marsh hawk, and a nesting pair of bald eagles with their eaglets.
The birds and the few stolen moments I got with them on the balcony kind of got me through the vacation. I have been doing so well lately that my psychiatrist has okayed a slow taper off of Klonopin, a benzodiazepine, which is a class of drugs known for their highly addictive qualities. Even a .25 mg reduction is a bit miserable, especially for drug sensitive me. This time, the taper down is making me grumpy as hell (intense irritability is a documented bipolar symptom anyway – you don’t really need the link – just ask P Dad). Not exactly the time to take my kids on vacation. Flower Face talks constantly, from the moment she wakes up until we tell her talking and sleep cannot exist simultaneously. (Her newest trick is trying to estimate our exact moment of arrival on any given car trip. It sounds like this: how fast are you going? how about now? what time is it? how many miles until we get there? how fast are we going? how many miles? how about now?) I am glad that she is curious and smart but the string of questions and commentary is exhausting and it’s incredibly hard to concentrate with both the noise of my brain and hers sounding at once. Freckle Farmer is in one of those phases where he whines, then emits a high-pitched squeal if he doesn’t get his way. And he eggs his sister on; the two of them fight, over ridiculous things like who frowned at whom or whether or not a crayon is purple or blue (it was lavender).
More cowbird, please.
Late at night I often wonder, should someone with my peculiar mental construction have had children? My days are a constant self-questioning. Did I respond well to that? Did I raise my voice too much? How would a normal parent react? (Dammit, somebody please send me a normal-o-meter!) I think, overall, I actually yell less than most parents because I have to be hyperaware of keeping my anger in check. But still, I never know if I’ve inflicted permanent emotional damage when I’ve peeled a clingy child off me and retreated to my room because it felt like there was something crawling under my skin and if someone touched me one more time I might scream and fly out the window.
The trick becomes, how do I practice mindfulness, which is easy when I am alone, in the face of irritability, around the chaos of others? My solution du jour has been to take the kids birding in our own little wetland sanctuary. They are remarkably quiet when scanning the trees for movement. Flower Face loves the bird book because it categorizes the world. Freckle Farmer thinks everything he sees – bird, tree, cloud, bunny, groundhog – is equally amazing. He mimics the excitement we demonstrated watching the hawks and eagles, but grafts it onto the everyday: “Oh Mommy! A squirrel! Look!” So there is this exchange. He learns my quiet attentiveness. I get to borrow his awe. And, for now, that is enough. In fact, I think it’s exactly what I need.
Wish You Were Here 