I’m sitting on the uncomfortable pavement surrounding the Newark Reservoir. After finally memorizing 15 birds I’ve been excited for this day: to sit and recognize something around me that I did not notice before. I feel more masterful at sitting, waiting and observing than I did at the start of this class. I find it’s still easy to get swept away by my worries and daydreams, but notice that my patience for something that may not even show up has grown. Or so I thought. Because as I sit and listen for a bird I recognize, looking like somewhat of a squatting duck myself, I realize I am hoping for an owl or a mockingbird. I want to see or hear something jarring in comparison to what I usually hear. After about 15 minutes, my ears pick up a sound I can recognize. It’s not the cooing of a mourning dove, nor a call that is sweet and soft. It’s a blue jay.

I see it as quickly as I hear it as it flies by. For some reason this is my least favorite call. It’s somewhat aggressive and irritating and it makes me almost annoyed at the bird, similar to my natural reaction towards young children screeching in public and quiet spaces. But it is then that I take a step back and remind myself how disturbing and wrong quiet nature would be. Thinking about the solemn picture a silent forest or stretch of land would paint allows me to be more appreciative of the blue jay’s call. I realize I’m part of the problem. I want a show and to be entertained. I want something exciting that I didn’t see yesterday instead of appreciating what I actually have in front of me and why it’s beautiful.

I had a lecture a week ago where a professor was discussing the importance of seeing one good trait in everything. Whether it be someone you love or loathe entirely. I’ve been trying to work on that a lot. I tend to write off what causes me stress or wrongs me, but life doesn’t work like that. It’s an inkling of a much larger problem really- not being content and always wanting something else. I’m sure it’s more of our culture at large than my upbringing to blame, but now that I’m aware of it, I want to practice gratitude as often as possible. I start to list all of the things I appreciate about the blue jay in my head. I love how its blue feathers makes the sky behind it pale in comparison. It’s probably one of the only bird I could recognize from a distance without glasses on. I like knowing I’m not alone at the Reservoir this morning. I enjoy how it probably doesn’t want me there either, but when it lands near me, it looks at me with beady black eyes, and leaves me alone. I like that it’s existence is a part of a giant chain of species that keep the world going. The more I list, the more I like the blue jay and the less it’s call irritates me.

My lack of appreciation for the blue jay’s call makes me think of the great auk in The Sixth Extinction. When I read the passage about the last birds killed I myself wanted to hurt Sigurour Iselfsson, Ketil Ketilsson, and Jon Brandsson for being so egocentric and stupid. I found my blood boiling when reading, “On catching sight of the humans, the birds tried to run, but they were too slow” (65). I tried to make sense to myself about how people could be so selfish and cruel and I can now see the parallel to my time here at the Reservoir with this Blue Jay. While I would never harm an animal myself, I could see how not appreciating what you have could happen. When you don’t take the time to notice the magic of other living beings or get to know their “one good trait” you lose your sense of humanity. Much like war and how it becomes increasingly hard to kill an opposing army when you get to know them in a human way. I wonder if teens were asked to go around nature and list what they liked about living things if it would increase their appreciation, and if repeated, if it would it substantially harder to kill.