in conversation
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
A few years back, I was walking through the fields that extend beyond our garden. It was early, and the Sun was just beginning to offer some warmth to the day. A sudden movement up ahead drew my attention to a pair also seizing this time of day: a Fox and a Crow. The Crow was swooping repeatedly towards the Fox's head before flying to a height where, if the Fox jumped, he could almost—but not quite—reach the Crow. They were both young, and it would have been easy to label the unfolding scene as aggressive, but I have no doubt that the two were playing.
I stood and watched for a while. They’d take little breaks and just sit—still in the peace of that pocket of time where the Sun has risen and the humans have not. Then the Crow would seem to sense a lapse in the young Fox's attention and jump up to swoop, boldly brushing a wing atop the rusty-headed Fox, who would perform an impressive, gymnastic leap-and-flip in response.
I often think about that little scene—how lucky I was to witness it, and how there is a relational world where silent languages are spoken, humming along both within and beside our own. The storm and the earthquake whisper to the Bird that they are starting to form, long before we come to know. To be in the world is to be in conversation with the world—but where nature speaks in subtle exchanges, we have all but forgotten our mother tongue.
Many moons ago, I was in Cambodia. I was 21 and on a circular treadmill, both searching for and running from myself. I was sitting on the steps in front of a hostel, dusty and lost to intrusive thoughts. Out of nowhere, a small plastic hoop landed at my feet, snapping me back to the moment. Looking up, I saw a young boy standing a few feet away, staring at the hoop and then back at me. I picked it up and threw it back to him so he could return to his game and I to my rumination, when, again, the plastic hoop landed at my feet.
I picked it up, this time meeting the boy's gaze and raising my eyebrows in a way I hoped translated as “Are we playing?” Luckily, the child was fluent in eyebrows, and he lifted his own, with a nod and a smile. Half an hour later, I was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a dusty, dirt street with both arms up in the air as a dozen or so children, at least a third of whom were missing a limb, threw plastic hoops towards me as I tilted from side to side, and they howled with laughter. There is so much to be said outside of the languages upon which we typically rely.
Earlier this week, standing on the station platform, waiting for the always-late train into London to arrive, I was lost in an internal monologue of dissatisfaction. I silently berated the public transport system (for consistently failing me), myself (for leaving the house), and every person on the platform (for existing) until my brain stepped in with a reminder I have trained it to frequently offer: “You are going to die.”
And just like that, my litany of discontent ceased. I heard the Robin that had been belting out its greatest hits, and the Wren that sounded as though it were competing. I saw the Daisies which have no business growing through a crack in the tarmac of the platform, and yet, happily, are. I noticed the besuited, headphoned gentleman on the platform opposite, who could barely contain the dance which so wanted to move through him.
Acknowledging the fact that my time here is limited both grounds and liberates me. My vision is sharpened, and any misplaced significance reorganises itself. My grievance towards National Rail shrinks to an appropriate size, and the beauty of the Ladybug making her way up the lamppost expands exponentially.
I love this brief existence. I love it with a ferocity that I hope, in some way, makes up for the years I spent taking it entirely for granted. This attention of mine is a most precious gift, one I’ll only possess for another four or five decades at most. Turning it towards frustrations when there is birdsong to be heard is an act of madness, and the blessing of my mortality offers a moment of sanity. Death stands on the horizon of my life, ready to guide me to whatever might lie on the other side—reminding myself of its presence only ever deepens my own.
When I was younger, I would have felt as though I were tempting fate by so often bringing to mind that I am going to die. But all the reminder does is pull me into the true and miraculous nature of the moment—of each moment. Of this one. And this.
And this.
Yours in aimless flight…
I am so so happy I've stumbled upon your substack! As a person who spends an odd amount of time thinking about mortality, and a scientist of bird cognition, I'm not sure a more perfect newsletter exists. And what a wonderful reminder on a Sunday morning to search for small joys in this fleeting life x
It's just as you say, Chloe- exactly as you say. I'm on my last half decade. I've kept death before me for many years now and the world was made more poignant thereby. Now, let the world in all its bright vivid beauty turn to a mist and something like an expansive great joy arise- a joy that holds fox and crow, boy and lady, train and passenger, all in its compassionate radience.