What I've Learned In Bioacoustics

Or: what to do when everything feels awful

I came to this cafe to study, but here I am writing — a tale as old as cafes and writers.

Everything feels awful, lately. In the States, at least, everything is going exactly how we thought it would, which is to say: awfully. It seems every day there is a new headline to be upset about. Every day brings more executive orders designed to overwhelm, mystify, and upset us, the masses. Food is increasing in price; coffee is set to become prohibitively expensive. People, families, children, are being rounded up regardless of their legal status to be here; a journal entry from Anne Frank’s diary feels entirely too relevant today.

It’s hard to feel hope.

But if hope came easily, it would be delusion, wouldn’t it? Despair is so tempting to give in to, so it takes grit, it takes guts to believe there is an alternative. It takes skinned knuckles and broken teeth to rise again, again, again. Anything less than that feels like a thin veneer, a denial of what really is.

I think where I’m going with this is: when everything feels awful, I go for a walk.

There’s a lovely little nature reserve behind my building, and it is often there that I find myself meandering - usually with Hiro, who loves these excursions, but occasionally alone, when I really need to lose my sense of self. I walk slowly, and I look closely, and I listen intently.

I’ve long held that curiosity is my favorite trait in any human or animal, but especially in myself. And in learning more about the world around me, I fall more deeply in love with it. Being able to identify the red cedars, the alders, the Douglas firs and blue spruces adds variety to the wall of green that feels ever-present here on the rainy Pacific coast. Oregon grapes have their own spiky flavour, but snowberries wag merrily on the winter winds. Mushrooms and fungi have their own names, and to know them is to recognize an old friend.

The sounds, too! In my bioacoustics class, taught by the fun-auntie-type ornithology professor, we’ve been emphasizing the studies of bird calls. How rich, then, does the air become! The harsh cry of the Stellar’s jay becomes a joy, signaling the lengthening of the winter days as spring eases her way forward. Is that the kaw of an American crow, or the throaty gronk of a raven that I heard? The chips and trills, the crescendos, the elaborate songs all have meaning now, instead of being a muddled cacophony. The red-wing blackbirds are territorial, and warble their distinctive buzzy notes to keep the migrating sparrows (and each other) at bay. The sparrows, for their part, are clamoring in the Douglas firs, and I like to think they are checking in with each other: “Marie, I’m over here! Over here!” “Dougie, check out this perfect nesting spot I found!” The American Robins are returning, puffed up to the size of softballs against the chill air, giving their all to the songs as they seek out mates.

I, in my humanness, am prone to imagination. As a naturalist-in-the-making, it’s a trait to be wary of, but here in the reserve, surrounded by chip-chip-zweeeeet! I am immersed in a world not my own, and I indulge. What could the world be like, if we prioritized the symphonies of sparrows, wrens, robins, and blackbirds? What might it look like if we valued the space we share with raccoons, deer, spiders, and trout? The Indigenous peoples of this land have known for thousands of years what that could be like; what would it take for a return to that way of life? A life where we are not separate from the world, but a caring, loving part of it?

It would take skinned knuckles, broken teeth, and a hope that refuses to quit.
Do I have what it takes?

I like to think I do.
I think so, because I like immersing myself in birdsong.

I couldn’t NOT share this pictures of Hiro.