“Should I get into birding?” Or, A Case Against Perfectionism
Pursuing what you love with more gusto, sass, and imperfect execution
Bird imagery has low-key pursued me all my life. In middle school, I was often compared to a flamingo or ostrich (two cheers for preteen insults for all the tall lanky girlies!). I later became obsessed with a certain golden snitch featured prevalently in our favorite wizarding world. While not exactly a bird, I still consider it part of my Bird Canon—a gold, shiny, winged quidditch ball? Don’t threaten me with a good time!
In college, calls home would inevitably yield a veiled reprimand from my dad, “You can’t soar with the eagles in the morning if you’re up with the owls at night.” (Despite the poetic advice, I never did morph into a majestic patriot and opted instead to hoot nightly with friends, novels, or a good TV show.) Last summer, we spent three weeks at my partner’s family lakehouse in Northern Wisconsin. One sunny afternoon kayaking, we spent a good twenty minutes bobbing lazily only a few feet away from a gorgeous lone loon. I fell in love with him and immediately named him Larry.
Four years ago, I moved to the PNW and was delighted to discover a small menagerie of feathered friends who frequented our yard. During our first summer in Seattle, I pestered my partner with squeals and multi-floored shouts—“the stellars jays are back!” “Look at the sweet baby hummingbird at the window!” “Eeeeee! A chickadeeeeee!”
Cut to a few weeks ago: I spent five days on Orcas Island at a writing retreat. The retreat itself could (and probably should) merit a full post1 and was held at a lovely resort in Doe Bay with all kinds of lodging from treehouses, to yurts, to small cabins. I stayed in one of the small cabins, named “Eden,” which, obvious to its name, was literally nestled in the middle of the resort’s vegetable garden. The whole scene was serene and idyllic: The cabin itself was set yards away from the other buildings. The surroundings were quiet. A slice of the bay was just visible from the back porch.
The peace was palpable in this cabin, which amplified the morning ritual I didn’t see coming. Each morning of the retreat (save one) before my alarm jingled awake, I woke up to the bang! bang! bang! of a gorgeous, fat, red-breasted robin eagerly flopping, belly first, into the glass of the sliding doors leading to the back porch. Nice to meet you, too, Rowdy Robin.
I am a night owl (I never did learn to soar with those eagles, remember?), so the first morning, harried and disoriented, I stumble to the glass door just in time to see the robin flitting off with…attitude? Surely my pre-coffee, morning eyes deceive me? I may be one to anthropomorphize literally any being (e.g., my dog has his own Instagram account), but I swear, the robin’s earnest energy on that first morning was directed at me, as if to say, “HUMAN! WE DO NOT SLEEP AT THIS GORGEOUS, FINE MORNING HOUR! IT IS SPRING! THERE ARE WORMS TO BE HUNTED! THERE ARE SONGS TO BE SUNG!” Honestly, it was some real “Well…Actually” energy. But, when the robin returned three out of the next four mornings at the same ungodly morning hour with the same bang! bang! bang!, I realized there was deeper meaning at play.2
What struck me was the enthusiastic dedication this bird had in waking up the lucky human inhabiting the Eden garden cabin, and doing so with gusto, sass, and imperfect execution.
What struck me was the enthusiastic dedication this bird had in waking up the lucky human inhabiting the Eden garden cabin, and doing so with gusto, sass, and imperfect execution. In fact, on one of the mornings, he chose the side window instead of the back porch to do his floppy banging. Okay, Rowdy Robin, I get it, we can go about things differently or imperfectly and still make an impact. He did, after all, still accomplish his mission to outpace my alarm in waking me. I even smiled on the third morning!
So often, I fall prey to perfectionism. I have a mantra at work—perfection is the enemy of good. While I preach this mantra constantly because I truly believe it, I don’t always follow the charge. A catalyst for starting this Substack is recognizing my own battle with perfection when it comes to my writing—I was waiting for the perfect time, the perfect idea, and/or the perfect muse. Rowdy Robin doesn’t wait for the perfect time (he’s consistently 20-30 minutes early, according to my watch), doesn’t care about inconveniencing a neurotic human, and doesn’t convey his message perfectly. But he’s there. He shows up. He reminds me (neurotic human) that nothing is ever truly perfect. The time may never feel right, the ideas will ebb and flow, and the muse will find you when it finds you. Do you think this is a stretch? If you do, you can join the other corner of the Internet I stumbled upon when researching “what do robins mean”—the cynical Reddit dude who said something to the effect of “if a robin is trying to get into your house, it’s just a dumb robin.” Rowdy Robin and I know better.
So, if birds do not care to be perfect. This means that birding in and of itself is an imperfect pursuit. But what a delight! Finding imperfection that is brimming with beauty and awe is what it’s all about, right? I am reminded of a poem by the incomparable Mary Oliver, The Summer’s Day, which I’m sure many of you have read before:
Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean— the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down— who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
What are we doing with our one wild and precious life? Wasting it on the pursuit of perfection? Avoiding joy and exploration because we may fall short? Second guessing ourselves when we have a typo or can’t quite express ourselves fully? No, sir. That’s not what we’re doing.3 We may be scared, skeptical, insecure, or some combination of all three, but for me, I’d like to take the cue from Rowdy Robin (or any other bird of your choosing). He flies floppily, sings intently. I want to pursue that which excites me, that which gives me joy, just like him! And, I want to do so with gusto, sass, and imperfect execution.
Until last year, I didn’t even admit to myself I wanted to pursue what I considered a passion—writing. I still get self-conscious saying “I am a writer” (seriously, I’m forcing myself to deeply inhale as I write this!), but as I confront my own fear, skepticism, and insecurity, I find that I’m actually more inspired and driven to write.4 All of this hesitation and imposter syndrome is founded upon a deep-seeded perfectionism, which I am owning here, spending my one wild and precious life floppily flying and singing intently. In other words, I am WRITING ANYWAY with gusto, sass, and imperfect execution.
Taylor Swift recently said5 in an interview, “I think the more art you create, hopefully the less pressure you put on yourself.” Kind of like the more birds you see the more enthusiastic you are to see another, and the more you know about what you are witnessing. No pressure! Or, at least, less pressure! Pursue the birds, write the short story, sing the song, because we do know how to pay attention6 and we know how to be imperfectly inspired.
I may do an entire post on the retreat at some point, but for now…if you ever EVER thought about doing a writing retreat, just GO. I can’t tell you how special it was for me to carve out time for myself simply to pursue a passion project/hobby!
Before you come at me, it’s going to get a little “woo woo” but bear with me. According to the INTERNET, robins are symbols of good luck, abundance, joy, contentment, happiness, rebirth, power and impact of our words, and entering into a new chapter in life. In some cultures, robins signify releasing negative energy and embracing new and happier phases in life. So let me live and hop on this symbolism ride!
Remember when I said I was opinionated? Here’s our first clear, “Well…Actually” moment, friends.
Again, the writing retreat I went on was a huge help in this confrontation. Seeing other artists (from amateur to published author) grapple with the same feelings and hesitations but doing so with grace and fearlessness, was an inspiration to say the least. I owe so much to the artists I met on that retreat who, despite being strangers in the beginning, became fast friends who only had words of encouragement and empathetic understanding. More to come on this in future posts.
Like I said in my first post, there will be a lot of Taylor Swift quoting!
Mary Oliver, again.
I loved this! And I love that you stayed in Eden — I was spying that one for booking next time haha. (I love gardening and have a pretty big one at home.)
I loved your description of floating with the loon. I grew up in MN and my family had a cabin on a small, quiet lake. As a kid I would canoe out to the middle and lay on my back, listening to the birds and the subtle lapping of the water against the canoe. And yes, I would also sidle up next to a loon to enjoy its company. Thanks for bringing me back to that feeling.
Cassie I’ve always loved birds so my vote is for birds. One thing I notice is how intelligent they are. When they’re chirping, the language is almost like the rhythmic drip of a fountain: consistent, unpretentious, and yet resonant.