Contingent: On Birds and Peace
Part II: October 15, Fall 2025
It’s just past mid-semester and I’m seeking peace. Sometimes I find it in the classroom, where I can mostly focus on what the day’s tasks are, for example, slice-of-life fiction/essay prompts to discover the epiphany in the mundane. To find humanity.
We read Joe Plicka’s “But Whyyy” from Brevity, in which a four-year-old asks his father “Why are there birds?…Why do we need birds?” We discuss where the epiphany is, and students offer this gem:
“…yes, yes dammit, I do need birds, I need them and not just because of all the complex ecological reasons but also because when I see a company of munias flutter away I flutter too, and when I am walking to my office and I see a golden plover eyeing me while it never stops foraging in the dirt under the coconut palms—charging up for its 3,000-mile nonstop flight back to Alaska—I just start talking to it, something I don’t normally do with random birds, because plovers are bird celebrities and I am awestruck and don’t care who sees me conversing with this fowl, and when I walk away it feels like I’ve just, like, witnessed something. In other words: I was present. In other words, my sweet son, if you are grown now and reading this, we need the birds like we needed each other that day: to feel alive. And the inverse: without them we are less alive. Like how football is never really Football unless you’re watching it with Uncle Jeff. Or how the holidays aren’t quite the Holidays after your parents are gone.”
Joe Plicka, “But Whyyy”
When discussion continues, I share an anecdote from when I first met my father-in-law, and as a young grad student, noticed a a cd in his van: Relax, with Bird Sounds. I remember thinking the title was funny and imagined him driving along, whistling with the birds. But probably, he was listening. Likely, he was praying. In class, I share how, in the chaos of self-care social media I consume, I came across an article about how birds sing when it’s safe, and the human nervous system evolved to register birdsong as safety. I was unaware, when I laughed at that cd, how thick life could ravel worry, how much we need bird sounds. Some students nod, the great classroom salve. An expression not necessarily of agreement, but understanding, connecting.
Sunday morning, an hour or so before we leave for my son’s hockey game, I sit on the porch, alone, admiring our freshly-poured sidewalk, listening to the chickadees, providing feedback for student work. I woke in a panic of cortisol as I have every morning since September. I’m wishing the birdsong to loosen the knot of whatever it is, old trauma, a muscle disconnected from my brain, or just life — teenage sons, leaving teaching, the budget I can’t manage, the inhumanity of our national context, the health of everyone — stubborn in my core. I’m half-joking, half-begging for a spiritual awakening.
At hockey, parents perch in loose rows. I’m not always prepared with blankets and a sensible coat, but so many of us wear heated vests, bring luxurious, cozy blankets, snacks for younger children, and form a community in which we spend three, sixteen-minute periods with our nervous systems vigilant for our children. That isn’t all it is—we laugh hard, are sometimes appalled, cheer on our team — but right now, we’re talking about the nervous system. Some parents brave the scorekeeping and are the ultimate djs. There are a lot of feelings at a hockey game—love, excitement, pain, triumph, passion, anger, joy — peace isn’t a common feeling for us in the stands.
I adore the beauty of skating, how exhilarating their time on the ice can be, but the whistle at a hockey game is not birdsong. Some of us spend entire games in a state of brace. We’re so attentive it becomes bearable and we call out their names and our advice. We enjoy the satisfying sound of blade-slicing, but our ears are alert to banging of the boards and rattle of glass. Can we be present and braced at the same time?
Lately, I’m perpetually braced and racing with worry. I know I am not alone.
Last night, I texted my cousin Anna with an apology for my delay, as always. I told her I can’t look at the news and so instead I feel guilty for avoiding it. Anna responded with pictures of the five wild turkeys in the yard. She texted, “Stay right here in this present moment.” In the photo, the turkeys wander down the hill, brown, luscious, being present, occasionally looking up at the humans with the camera phone. Last month, there were deer.
