Meeting the neighbors: Birdwatching in the Arb

Four weeks into the semester, things are already getting a little dicey. How did I spend the last few days? All I remember are the 4 a.m. nights and locking myself in my room to read “Jane Eyre” while choking on a nasty cough. Overwhelmed by it all, I retreat to Nichols Arboretum. One step away from a world of luxury mid-rises, I find a sanctuary from time. In every direction, a concert of birdsong envelops the trees. Standing at the edge of a colossal drop, I pick through the cluttered branches with binoculars. I spot flashes of blue and hear woodpeckers whittle wooden wormholes.

How many birds do I know? How many specific and local varieties could I name? I can’t reliably distinguish a crow from a raven or a robin from Michigan from a robin in California. In her essay, “Returning the Gift,” botanist Robin Kimmerer interrogates this ignorance of the natural world. 

“Our great grandparents were fluent in natural history,” Kimmerer wrote. 

Conversely, the modern American school child can recognize “…more than a hundred corporate logos, and can name about ten plants which include such categories as ‘Christmas tree,’ and ‘grass.’”

Bird-watching — or really any effort aimed at observing and naming the inhabitants of the natural world — may seem like a trivial, pedantic exercise or something to be reserved for the earning of Boy Scouts merit badges. And it is true that being able to identify a common grackle by its vague blue sheen won’t help you with taxes or homework or dating. But why should I know the names of three dozen clothing companies headquartered a thousand miles away and not the creatures who visit me in my backyard? How many all-nighters have I pulled and how many nights have I wandered depressed and weary through the Diag, only to be revived by the music of a hidden songbird? Why shouldn’t I know the name of the singer?

Our ancestors had heavens full of stars and a skyline full of aspens and maples and oaks. They navigated the earth and told stories about a scorpion chasing a giant huntsman across the sky. They knew which trees yielded which saps and which woods made the most buoyant boats. Now, our skies are ruled by the logos of chain stores; from Ann Arbor, you must drive at least four hours to see a truly clear night sky.

As Kimmerer writes, our dwindling knowledge of the natural world represents an “intellectual hijacking,” reflecting the efforts of corporations to turn our eyes toward profit, consumer goods and capital.

Birdwatching was my first step in reacquainting myself with my neighbors in nature. But it’s not an instantly gratifying activity. In the Arb, I watched as masses of birds darted across the sky like little black smudges in the background of a Monet. Catching them still was the tricky bit. I darted around the paths trying to juggle the movements of birds, fumbling with the binoculars. Grace, The Michigan Daily photographer accompanying me, seemed to have no such problem, showing me a camera roll full of woodpeckers and robins. She offered me one piece of advice: Sit still and wait for the birds to come to you. 

Birdwatching is slow. It’s an experience of nature that is less immediately thrilling than hiking through peaks and chasms and less convenient than identifying wildflowers. Perhaps this is why birdwatching is often associated with retirees — it’s the ideal activity for those with ample amounts of free time. But the slowness and patience of the process is part of its essential virtue. It is a conscious choice to divert our attention away from institutions which seek to monetize every second of our time and instead use that attentiveness to mentally reconstruct our world. Through attention, we invite nature back into our lives and open doors to wisdom and joy which are completely independent of capital. Through patience and slowness, we can offer respect to the animals we name and find them on their own terms.

At first, I was irritated by how few birds I could find. But before a whole hour had passed, I realized that the stress of the week had already melted away. Pink wildflowers dotted the dirt by my feet. The sun sank and viewing conditions became even less favorable. The trees were golden and thrumming with squirrels. The birds were singing no less loudly. How could I feel loneliness or despair? I was surrounded by thousands of fellow travelers — squirrels and birds and slimy little bugs — all basking in a perfect Tuesday afternoon. Why didn’t I spend every afternoon in the Arboretum?

We are trained to look for nature in remote places. So many of us, sick with the blank night sky or drab suburban sprawl, travel far to experience a reconnection with true wilderness. And it’s true that there are some activities (such as hiking or dark-sky viewing) that can only be fully experienced in specific regions. However, when we confine the natural to remote spaces of “untouched” wilds, we implicitly accept our alienation from the natural world. As William Cronon demonstrates in his seminal essay “The Trouble with Wilderness,” the conception of an untouched wilderness apart from humanity willfully ignores humanity’s deep ties to the natural world and the ancient Indigenous history on “untouched” lands. This ideal also encourages us to prioritize dramatic, romantic vistas rather than the nature that surrounds our daily lives.

The unique advantage of birdwatching as an exploration of the natural world is that it can be done virtually anywhere. It resists the dissociation of ourselves and the natural world, instead encouraging us to develop an intimate familiarity with our own neighborhood, rather than seek out bucket list sights we’ll rarely, if ever, return to. 

It’s a constant comfort to know that, even when I’m exhausted, hunched over a copy of “Jane Eyre,” I am not alone. There are cardinals in the oak outside my window who will wake me in the morning. Even when I fail an exam, the birds will still fly. Slowly, I will learn my companions’ names, and I will give them my eyes and ears. I will bury my heart and words in the trees. My time birdwatching has taught me that all I need to escape chain coffee shops and flashy retailers is a pair of binoculars and a spare moment. After only an hour in the Arb, I see a shuffle of black and white in the branches — a black-bellied plover, an uncommon migrant in the autumn. They’re only a little fistful of feathers. I watch as their shy wings spread and it soars. Even now, I hear their call. If we look more carefully, there is a world waiting for us.

Statement Contributor Awmeo Azad can be reached at awmeo@umich.edu.

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