on finding ways to visit daily with magic and wonder

I don’t need to remind you this, that the world is chaotic, that it’s not simple. And it’s definitely not a binary. There is no black or white choice, no right or wrong. 

Even the classic “dogs or cats” question is inherently flawed. For one, the choice doesn’t include a third option, one for the animal I love most, the one that brings me the most joy and makes me feel most alive: birds. 

And yes, this is a blog post about when I first fell in love with birbs.

Art and Picture Collection, The New York Public Library. "Various Birds On Attached Cards." The New York Public Library Digital Collections.

Most of my life I didn’t pay attention to birds. I knew they existed but I mostly ignored them unless they somehow invaded whatever indoor space I was in at the time. A bat in the chimney? That’s terrifying. And so is a lonely sparrow in a gymnasium. 

Now my life practically revolves around them. 

Like most love stories, this clearly wasn’t love at first sight, so what happened?

I can pinpoint not one moment, but several over the course of a few years.

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It all began with a college internship. 

I had a few disciplines in college and I loved internships, so my before my senior year, I took an opportunity to try out website design at a local publication. Soon that internship led to a full-time job and I got an even deeper look at marketing and publishing.

The publication? Bird Watcher’s Digest, a bimonthly magazine for, yes, people who like to watch birds. In their backyards (mostly).

Scoff if you want. I did initially. But the magazine had been around, by that point, for ~20 years and had a growing and loyal subscriber base. They were, by all accounts, successful. 

Even if the family-run outfit was relatively small—maybe a dozen people worked there—it was a fun, creative environment to be in. At the time, it felt big-time. 

General Research Division, The New York Public Library. "White-headed Sea Eagle, or Bald Eagle" The New York Public Library Digital Collections. 1840.

Well anyway, two brothers ran the publication—started by their parents—and each owned a grey mini-van with the company logos in large white vinyl plastered to the sides. Some of us called those vans the Bird Mobiles. 

Imagine, if you will, sitting at your desk, minding your business, doing some spreadsheeting, when a siren of a kind goes off. Like firefighters or Batman, this beacon would send the company scurrying to their vehicles, off to save the day. 

Here’s how it actually went.

A local customer would call in with a rare bird sighting. Someone, usually the matriarch of the family and co-founder of the magazine, would get on the intercom, alerting the company to this news. 

We’d all quickly gather our binoculars and field guides—bought for us by the company upon starting—and get in the vans. 

Then we’d drive to the dam to look at a bald eagle nest. Or to a field in the middle of nowhere to find a woodpecker not normally known in that part of the country. 

At first, these excursions felt like a fire drill did to an elementary school student: an excuse to be outside avoiding responsibilities and lessons. 

But with time I learned to appreciate these trips as an opportunity for that type of magic and wonder that only comes when something is rare. 

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Art and Picture Collection, The New York Public Library. "White-Eared Hummingbird ; Crested Hummingbird (Female) ; Sapphirine Hummingbird (Female) ; Mango Hummingbird (Young Male) ; Violet-Eared Hummingbird (Female) ; Tufted-Necked Hummingbird (Male)." The New York Public Library Digital Collections.

One of my last birding field trips was to the editor’s house in Whipple, Ohio. There he lived with his wife, a famous and popular painter and naturalist and occasional NPR guest. 

These were famous and artistic and talented people, the biggest in our little part of Ohio, so the trip had an air of heightened significance already. 

Then we arrive. And I see it.

A giant tower caroming off the back of the house and into the sky like a lighthouse, or a skyscraper, or that tower built by Babylonians so they could get closer to God.

But there’s no steeple. The roof is flat, and I can see, too, that there’s a porch. 

There’s a roof and a rooftop, on top of a tower. 

A rooftop tower you can sit on. 

A bird-watching roof-top porch. On top of a tower.

And then I see a glare. Toward the top is a clear ring—a cylinder of windows.

A bird-watching Florida room. For the colder months.

All in a tower.

That they built onto a house.

That takes some dedication. That takes some love. 

That’s on a whole nother level that I can’t even comprehend. That’s almost cult-like. Can you be a cult for birds? 

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Walking to the house, a swarm of butterflies hovering near some bushes lining the sidewalk envelop me in a beautiful and majestic cloud of soft fluttering wings. Sometimes they brush me, and it tickles. 

To the right of the house, I notice another set of bushes and flowers. Everywhere, hummingbirds. It felt like there were at least 300 hummingbirds, though it was probably closer to a dozen

Everywhere there appeared to be little stations like this, areas built or left to grow naturally with a little guiding hand. And each area had a specialty, a purpose to attract particular types of birds or species.

And the tower? Honestly, the tower was cool af. 

They live on a hill, and in the tower you could for miles, miles, miles. And yes, as the Bon Iver lyric suggests, I knew at once I was not magnificent.

Leaving, in fact, felt like a reverse Wizard of Oz, like I was going from a magical and magnificent technicolor existence to a boring and hum-drum black and white. 

But it struck me that I, too, could one day have this idyllic retreat at my own home. Maybe not a tower, but I could definitely put up some bird feeders and maybe plant certain types of flowers and bushes. 

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Rare Book Division, The New York Public Library. "Smilax loevis Lauri folio non Serrato, baccis nigris, The Bay-leaved Smilax ; Pica cristata carulea, The crested Jay." The New York Public Library Digital Collections. 1754.

I woke up this morning groggy. Mo noticed the tire in my eyes right away, asking why they were red. 

So first task of the day is now clear: coffee.

With the hot beverage in my hand, I sat down on the couch in the front room, as I often do in the mornings when the sky is that slight-orange-tinted shade of blue and grey. 

I take a sip of coffee and look out the large bay window, noting it had rained this morning. I think about how much we needed it, how the birds will love it.

I start waking up, perking up. I walk to the back of the house, toward the large bay window there. I want to see how the birds are responding to the way I re-arranged the feeders. 

To my surprise, there are dozens of birds scattered about my back yard, some on the feeders, some in the trees nearby. 

A bluejay—that bastard—swoops in out of nowhere, trying to dropkick an innocent bystander. 

I’m enraptured. I yell to the girls to come look and then watch as their faces brighten and their eyes widen.

And then I realize it. I am here. I’ve done it.

All these years later, I have a bird paradise in my backyard. 

There are still tweaks to be made. I’d like more butterflies and hummingbirds. 

But I’m also reminded of an incident from the other day, when Ramona’s daycare teacher asked us about our pet rabbit. It took me a minute to realize Ramona thinks the birds and the chipmunks and the squirrels and the rabbits that we watch every day in our backyard, are her pets. 

She thinks they’re hers. 

In moments like that I get the sense that growing up in this house feels to them like they’re living in a woodland cabin built in a clearing. And all around them, these magical creatures scurry about, delighting anyone who will simply pay close enough attention. 

It maybe doesn’t sound like much. But most days, that’s all I need.  ​