I discovered birdwatching very recently, late even to the pandemic surge of city folk suddenly communing with nature. It started innocently: observing a never-seen-before bird in the neighbourhood park. Soon I was drawn to the colours and patterns on display. The shimmering iridescence of the tiny purple sunbird, the changing plumage of the pond heron, the stripes on a hoopoe, the inspired palette of the coppersmith barbet. Who knew there were so many shades of blue to be seen? Or better still, brown?
Birdwatching drew me into a vortex of art and literature, history and science. I shed my own preening, bright feathers, and embraced dull ones so I can meet birds. Now I fearlessly walk into muddy grass; an action so unexpected that it leaves my mother bemused. As my excitement about birds and birdwatching reached a fever pitch, I had a more solemn realization.
What keeps me birdwatching, more than anything else, is the lesson it has taught me in patience and quietude. No matter what the ambition, all I can ever do is try my best and wait.
