The day I found my joy
This is where I was standing
I was walking on a nature trail at the Audubon Society of Portland when I found my joy. Rather, I reconnected with it. It was my birthday, late July, and I’d been struggling with depression. On one of the weary days leading up to this day, it had dawned on me that only two obstacles — fear and time — were standing between me and some things I’d always wanted to do.
Suddenly, neither obstacle seemed insurmountable. After all, nothing could make me feel worse, and if I didn’t feel better, at least I wouldn’t always wonder whether I might have.
Bird watching — or what I now know is more accurately called birding — was the first of the things I’d always wanted to do. And so, on my birthday, I took the day off and drove almost an hour to the Audubon Society. I swallowed my nerves and asked for advice about field guides and binoculars. (I tested three pair of binoculars and was too embarrassed to tell the staff member that I couldn’t see anything but a dark blur through any of them.)
And then I took a short hike. And that is when it happened. It wasn’t something I saw through my binoculars — I still hadn’t figured out how to work those. It wasn’t even a bird.
It was the water lilies. Firmly rooted, standing tall. Established. Comfortably wild. Easy with themselves after their long journey through the muck. I wanted to know more about their world.
Nearby, a plaque read:
“To a person uninstructed in natural history, their country or seaside stroll is like a walk through a gallery filled with wonderful works of art, nine-tenths of which have their faces turned to the wall.” — Thomas Huxley, Biologist, 1825–95
There was a moment of peace. A moment of quiet awe. A resting. A feeling I wanted to have again.
I needed more of me in this. More of this in me. I wanted to live this way.
Ever since I got the hang of those binoculars (it didn’t take long), I’ve been watching the birds. Nearly six years now. I get out to wild places to watch them. When I’m out there, things happen.
Practicing this observation of nature is a part of me now. When I’m away from it for a while, I get restless and uneasy. There was never anything to fear about birding, I discovered — I just had to be comfortable starting at the beginning. As for time, it will always be in limited supply, but I’ve learned how to make better choices (it was a slow process, and painful).
Joy begets joy. From my birding practice came walks in spring fields of wildflowers, summers kayaking with my family, and winter mornings watching bird feeders from an old comfortable chair at my window. I identify and count birds for citizen science projects, to help the birds. And after all they’ve given me, knowing that I’m helping the birds is perhaps the best part of it all.
