Perched

Birding taught me something this week: you don’t rush. You move from perch to perch. You stop. You wait. You notice. This essay does the same.

Perch: Paper

This week, for Environmental Imagination, we read The Conference of the Birds. This is a must-read. Check it out from the library. Buy it if you can. It’s worth it. The paper alone—the weight and texture of it—feels intentional, as if the book knows it carries something sacred.

I’ve been walking around lit up ever since. Lit up by this class, by this program, by being at Chatham. Books, nature, imagination. I feel like I’m inside a yes.

There is something powerful—almost startling—about recognizing yourself in a space. About realizing, oh, this fits me. Not because I earned it. Not because I achieved my way into belonging. But because I’m allowed to be curious here, slow here, awed here. I am seeing myself, and I am awed.

Perch: Feathers

This week, I went to the National Aviary with Leo, simply to be with birds. I also spent time at Phipps Conservatory. I gave myself permission—real permission—to sit, to watch, to not rush to the next thing. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? To be. It is the most difficult thing I have ever attempted.

My body wants motion. It wants productivity, output, accomplishment. I am deeply practiced in effort. Fluent in forward momentum. Sitting still felt almost rebellious.

The birds did not care. They watched me back.

Perch: Song

I have been fascinated with birds for a long time. I took ornithology in college. We netted birds, banded them, held their small, fierce bodies in our hands. I tried to learn bird songs. I was not very good at it.

My friend Patty—nicknamed Nails, because she was hard as nails—picked it up instantly. She could hear a few notes and know exactly who was calling. I admired her. I also quietly measured myself against her.

Of course I did.

Now there is an app. I can hold my phone up and let it identify birds by their songs. No proving required. No mastery badge earned. Just listening. I am learning, slowly, that I do not have to be exceptional at something to be in relationship with it.

Perch: King

In The Conference of the Birds, the birds believe all their answers lie with a king. Somewhere else. Someone else. If only they can find him. They suffer. They doubt. They lose one another along the way. Still, they keep going.

How many times have I done the same?

Looking for approval. For love. For validation. In other people, in achievement, in being chosen, in being seen. Look at the world right now. We are still doing this. Still reaching outward for certainty. Still believing someone else will save us.

No more kings.

And yet, we are searching for something.

Perch: Mirror

Bono’s words have been echoing in my head: I have climbed the highest mountains. I have run through the fields. I have swum the deepest seas. Only to be with you.

I used to think “you” was someone else. I didn’t realize who I was looking for, who I was trekking valleys for, who I was trying to be worthy of.

Turns out, it was me.

You is me. I am you.

There is something almost disorienting about recognizing beauty in yourself. Not pride. Not accomplishment. A quiet awe. Like spotting a rare bird and realizing it has been there the whole time.

Perch: Arrival

I am still learning bird songs. I still get them wrong. But I know this one now: the sound of slowing down, the sound of staying, the sound of coming home to myself.

I am not flying away anymore.

I am perched

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