Birds

I don’t think I could tell you at what point I became overwhelmed by the constant influx of news and information.  Memes that poked fun at the absolute ignorance of the powers that be no longer seemed so funny.  Updates on the death toll and ways of coping with the new normal weren’t helpful or informative any more. I had reached the saturation point.  

I also couldn’t tell you exactly how I came across the Cornell Bird Lab Feeder Cam.  But it was around that time.  

My sister has been an avid birder for years.  When we would visit each other either here in Chicago or at her place near San Francisco, a vigorous morning walk would turn into a leisurely stroll,  punctuated by sharp intakes of breath, and exclamations of “Look!  A (insert bird species here)”,  binoculars trained on some dense foliage or distant tree branches.  She’d often hand the viewers to me. I’d struggle to find what her eyes were so easily trained to see.  

It was also hard to discern their calls,  some of them so soft and high-pitched that they eluded ears that were damaged from years of touring and performing. It felt frustrating - what was I missing?  So I left the birding to her, trying to be patient and enjoy those moments through her.

Lately the walks I take in my neighborhood have turned into the most sacred part of my week.  I notice now what escaped me before.  Maybe the birds aren’t as hidden by the planes and traffic any longer.  Maybe there are more of them.  In any case they seem to be everywhere.   I’ve become eager to know more about them.

Hence stumbling across the Cornell Bird Lab and the Live Feeder Cam. There is something so hypnotic about it.  I find myself watching for long stretches of time, just absolutely transfixed. I would discern woodpeckers, a cardinal or two, finches, blue jays, some birds I couldn’t name yet - and of course the occasional squirrel. I’ve taken to looking at it first thing in the morning, turning it on and placing it in the window as I make my coffee instead of listening to the radio.  Bringing it with me on my phone wherever I go in the house.

I’m so grateful for these birds.  It feels good to connect to something bigger than myself.  Watching and listening to them makes me want to care for them. For the planet. For our home.  We all live here.  It’s not just about us humans.  It’s much, much bigger.  And that’s a good thing.

Something Holy

Three years ago my brother moved up to Northern California from the San Fernando Valley where he lived for many years and where we grew up.  His new home was situated in the Redwoods in Sonoma County, North of Berkeley where my sister lived.  It’s an amazing place - tall trees surround his home and fill the hills around.  It’s incredibly quiet - there’s lots of rain during the Fall and Winter, and fog comes down the nearby Russian River during the Summer.

As the three of us transitioned to life without my parents - they had passed away a few years before - we found that we had to connect with each other in a new way.  We made a commitment to be together at his place in the woods - to meet there every couple of months.  

I would fly into San Francisco from Chicago and meet my sister in Berkeley.  We’d get some food and coffee and head up North.  Often we’d show up in the evening, after my brother had taken one of his five hour hikes near the coast.  It was always wonderful to see him again, to make a fire in his wood burning stove, make dinner together - maybe watch an episode of Star Trek.

Lots of times at the end of the evening we would go outside onto his front deck.  As we opened the front door it was like stepping out into the void - it was so dark out - so completely black.  But then our eyes would adjust - we’d look up and see so many stars.  It was breathtaking.  You could see the outline of the Milky Way, sometimes satellites twinkling past.  And framing it all were the tops of these tall Redwoods.  We could almost hear them breathing.  Such a powerful presence.

It was like we were in a cathedral. In the presence of the most sacred, timeless beauty imaginable.  Something Holy.

New World, New Record

As I write this, I feel like we’re all in a strange new world these days. In one sense we have lost touch - quite literally - with each other. In another, we are all reaching out in incredible ways to keep the contact we so desperately need as beings on this planet.

As I wrote this last record I was re-reading a book that struck a chord with me when I first picked it up years ago. It’s called The Swerve by Steven Greenblatt. It’s the story about the Roman philosopher Lucretius and his treatise De Rerum Natura or On the Nature of Things. Sounds like heady stuff, but it’s really just about how we are all connected - all of us - animals, earth, the stars, humans. We are all of the same stuff - atoms. So I decided to name my album Atomic.

I had been thinking about connection anyway - as my brother and sister as I navigated life after our parents passed. As my fiancé’s family supported us and gathered us into their arms. As we spent time together at my brother’s house in the Redwoods - staring up at the stars and walking among those mighty giants. We are all connected. We are all one.