Beyond the metaphor: what birds teach us about health and relationships

The natural world has much to teach us when we learn to slow down and listen. Thanks to Thoreau I continue to wonder what nature will teach me when I slow down enough to pay attention (Thoreau, 1991). As I age, his words resonate more deeply: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived” (1854 p.66). And later “I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life,” as he ponders if life is mean or sublime. This autoethnography is my account of my later-life observations confronting some of its ‘essential facts.’

As a child, I learned about symbiotic relationships in nature, and life, birth, struggle, as well as death in the plant and animal kingdom. Occasionally, we looked closer at the minute habits that made plant and animal survival so extraordinary. No one in elementary school told me that I would need to learn to listen and adapt to survive in my own life landscape. No one said that the ways birds live in symbiosis with the natural world, with plants, landscapes, and weather, would be metaphors for the deep and meaningful ways I would need to find symbiosis to live in tandem with myself and other humans. What I did not understand then, but do now, is that adaptation comes from receiving feedback and changing with others and the surrounding natural systems. Haraway (2016) references the idea of sympoiesis, or collaborative, collective creation, to describe how all beings are made with and through one another, not independently. Survival, then, is not only about individual adaptation but is a shared process of responding, adjusting, and becoming within relationships.

As I have aged, watched my friends and family age, and watched us all suffer, gain traction, survive, and thrive through health and relationship challenges, I have found grounding in slowing down. I have learned to watch the natural world for lessons that doctors and health websites cannot teach. In this process, I have begun to shed my belief in human exceptionalism – the idea that humans are different from other organisms, that we possess free will and self-determined actions, through which we can solve our own problems with ingenuity alone (Catton and Dunlap, 1978). I continue to shift how I perceive the world. As Donna Haraway suggests, we do not exist apart from animals and nature, but we are continually made and remade through relationships with other species. I am neither simply taking lessons from other species nor trying to become like them. Rather, I want to recognize how I can be shaped by my relation to them and become a slightly different version of myself when I am more engaged with and attentive to their ways of being (Haraway, 2008). Similarly, Despret’s (2019/2021) book Living as Bird suggests that birds help make the world we, together, inhabit and that living through and as them requires an uprooting of assumed human categories. Instead of framing where a bird places their food cache, for example, as “good planning,” Despret asks us to see this as an ecological process involving placement, excess, loss, and regeneration. In this vein, I do not copy behaviors; I observe for healthier rhythms and processes that offer shared thriving in our ecological system.

As children, we read The Giving Tree (Silverstein, 1964), framed as a powerful parable, with the tree as a metaphor for unconditional parental love. In my adulthood, however, the story was reinterpreted, and I have seen the child vilified as a selfish, thankless consumer who prioritizes his own joy until the co-dependent, enabling tree is a dead stump. Now I can see the egocentrism in that book, while unintended, as one example of the thousands of ways in which humans are not aware of how our language, ideas, stories, and certainly our acts generate problematic norms and possible outcomes for the natural world. In the minority are stories or parables such as “Johnny Appleseed” or The Man Who Planted Trees (Giono, 1953). Both are stories about men who planted thousands of trees to help nature thrive before or during human expansion and construction. Giono’s parable shares the idea that small, repeated acts of care can have extended, beautiful consequences enduring centuries past the human who started them.

As I have listened more to the natural world and the rhythms and patterns it has followed for centuries, well outliving, outlasting me, I have shifted into what I have learned is an environmental paradigm. This shift moves me from a position of human exceptionalism to one in which I am part of ecological systems and constrained by natural limits. Despret further challenges us to reshape the questions we lean into as we observe birds. To think with birds is to understand their entire practice of living, of movement, territory, hunger, and adaptation, and then revise assumptions and questions about health and survival. These natural and ecological constraints do not warrant argument or struggle. Instead, by sitting with the natural world, I have noticed the smallest adaptive tweaks and changes. These subtle adjustments are ones that others and I might make to support our own health in moments of crisis or suffering.

The natural world has persisted for eons, not always in perfect harmony, but in dynamic and shifting relationships. Sometimes chaotic, often unstable, and full of competition, it has nonetheless created rhythms, cycles, and relationships that are largely self-sustaining. While nature includes struggle and loss, it is selective in its outcomes, with more energy focused on adaptations that provide the best opportunities for surviving and thriving.

An autoethnographic reflection can help deepen knowledge of ourselves. Such reflections help expand our relational intelligence by exploring how we thrive and coexist with other people, places, nature, and experiences. Autoethnography is best for this topic as it allows authors to connect personal experiences with ecological insights and translate personal reflections on human relationships into a broader understanding of health and relational being (Ellis et al., 2011).

While the majority of ornithological science relies on objective observations and measures, this article speaks through autoethnography, or the systematic analysis of personal experiences to unpack and understand social, cultural, or ecological phenomena (Ellis et al., 2011). The “auto” part of this work focuses on personal experiences of midlife health recognition and recalibration. The “ethno” portion examines social and cultural aspects, such as the idea of human exceptionalism. The “graphy” portion works through written, narrative analysis to connect thoughts on human health and relationships to avian ecology. Autoethnography may be unfamiliar, in the biological sciences, but it is well-suited for interdisciplinary studies where the lived experiences and realities of humans and the natural world intersect.

The interpretations and understandings presented here did not emerge from a single observation, but rather from a year of observing and reflecting on avian behaviors. In talking with trusted others, reading about high-altitude landscapes and avian adaptations, and reflecting in my journal, these interpretations accumulated and developed a deeply personal and relational meaning for me. At first, I simply thought, ‘these birds are cool,’ and ‘I wish I had that foresight.’ However, as I sat still to intentionally reflect on my changing emotional, physical, and mental health and the intimate details of the birds’ adaptations and survival patterns, meaning emerged. When I stopped seeing traits as one-off novelties and instead looked at the whole picture, I gained more nuanced insights into how their model of resilience could inform mine.

However, viewing nature as simply a metaphor, an anthropomorphic projection, or a literary device, reduces the thriving flora and fauna to tools for human use and obscures the complexity and beauty of the natural world. Rather, metaphors are vehicles for understanding life’s dynamic truths. Moving beyond the metaphor requires a deeper cognitive or philosophical shift to a process-oriented framework (McGilchrist, 2021). Understanding a metaphor requires that we take a process-oriented view, seeing systems as patterns, interactions, and movement over time, rather than as fragmented pieces. A Western view often reduces life to structural parts, which are more easily identifiable and measurable. Metaphors reconnect us to wholes, processes, and ongoing, dynamic relationships (McGilchrist). The birds I shared an experience with offered clearly woven models around which I could understand our shared systems and overarching patterns, along with our similar ways of regulating, seeing, and calibrating.

Positionality

In an autoethnography, with a researcher-as-instrument approach, my positionality must be stated, as it shapes the observations and interpretations. I write as a midlife, female observer whose attention to the natural world, and to birds specifically, intensified during a time of health recalibration. My awareness of human pain, vulnerability, and recovery, and the need to listen and adapt, led to my quiet times in nature and the field observations shared here. I grew up on the east coast of the United States, where birds were playful seasonal markers. We watched the bright red cardinal in striking contrast to the white snow of winter and the robin, who indicated spring renewal. Now, living in California, my high-altitude hikes have led me to new birds. In my older, more curious age (but also aware of my own fears and knowledge of consequences), these birds have shared their stories to help me understand adaptation, care, and patient survival. As a child, my parents ‘made’ us listen to NPR in the car, or as we called it “boring talking radio.” As an adult, I cherish the long-form stories of Radiolab, This American Life, and On Being. These stories let a slow, reflective narrative unfold life lessons learned through pain, joy, and gifts from others. While I certainly do not claim to be wise, I do think I have grown toward what Krista Tippett (2016) might frame as part of being ‘wise.” She might express it as an ongoing ability to listen, be open-minded, and ask better questions. My relationships with birds and with other humans require attention, humility, grace, and responsibility. I do not think I have more answers, but I have a more reflective approach to the world and hopefully am less selfish and more responsive.

The Clark’s Nutcracker

The first bird I learned to love in my peaceful observations after the age of 45 was the Clark’s Nutcracker. Hiking over 10,000 feet in the Eastern Sierras, there are fewer plants, trees, and animals. I enjoy the Marmots’ high-pitched warning bell and the pikas’ fast scurry. However, the most fascinating animal at this high altitude is the Clark’s Nutcracker, one of the few birds that can live at high altitudes all winter, because of its planning, foresight, organization, self-care, and mutualism.

The most fascinating attribute of the Clark’s Nutcracker, I thought, is his (her; I will interchange the pronouns because ‘it’ objectifies this beautiful example of surviving and thriving) better-known practice. These little birds work tirelessly for the majority of the year, each caching tens of thousands of seeds, up to 20 miles from home, to store food for the winter. This quiet little bird has extraordinary recall, memorizing the location of these seeds for their future, hungry selves. Clark (I like to refer to them in a friendly manner, using the first names Clark and Clara) can survive harsh, high-altitude climates with rough terrain and freezing temperatures all winter because she plans for and protects her future self. In doing so, she spreads the seeds of the Whitebark Pine, a keystone species in high-altitude ecosystems. This tree is essential for helping stabilize soil, reduce erosion, and regulate snowmelt in high-altitude landscapes. Clark’s crystal-clear memory (and larger hippocampus) safeguards his survival, and his work also ensures new life for the tree. Symbiosis with the stoic, solid whitebark pine is admirable. This relationship echoes Giono’s parable of ecological care, with the Nutcracker offering thousands of tiny opportunities for the tree to grow, long outliving the individual bird, and helping shape and build the landscape.

Whitebark pine seeds are as calorically dense as chocolate, and in winter, when food is scarce, are often sniffed out by other animals for a snack. While Clark does not intentionally share caches with other animals, he does plan for some theft by burying thousands more seeds than needed. It may not be sharing, but the little bird accepts that nature often plays by its own rules.

Clark showed me and moved me to plan for my future self in a careful, intentional way. More than simply stashing money in a 401(k), Clark taught a thoughtful approach to placing nutrients exactly where one needs them in the future. In my younger years, I lived day to day, seeing friends, collecting memories, and satisfying cravings. I was perhaps planting seeds, but differently than in later years. Now, as I age and time becomes more precious, my holistic health and the quality of my life depend heavily on the seeds I plant today. Friendships need depth and time to grow, and relationships require care, time, and rich soil. While I certainly do not plant 10,000 friendships, I can foster thousands of points of connection points in a given year and then trust that if or when I come back to that person or relationship, or they come back to me, something meaningful has had time to take root.

Observing nature has taught me to savor the soft spots, the gentle give of natural creatures, their bend with their environment, and the tender, careful placement of a future need - care of self today so that I may care for myself tomorrow. It is a vigilant but soft survival, graceful and accepting of life’s challenges. Clark, perhaps sillily enough, because it does not have facial expressions that I can understand, never appears stressed or angry about his lot. He may need to dig in snowy places, but Clark never squawks and screams when searching or caching. He is a peaceful presence, surviving and thriving in the harshest of conditions.

American Dipper

Sitting on a rock, streamside one fall, an American Dipper perched nearby, bobbing and bending his legs in the bird’s classic rhythmic dance. I was entranced. Why would this tiny, fluffy bird choose to live in such a high-altitude, cold environment, choosing to find their food in a rushing, turbulent cold-water stream? Why did he not migrate south with thousands of other birds, and why did he have the flashiest little white eyelids blinking secret messages at me, other birds, or predators? How did he not only live, but thrive this way? As I believe nature makes no mistakes, I leaned into what the little gray American Dipper could teach me.

This small bird, Cinclus mexicanus, is North America’s only aquatic songbird. He (again, alternating pronouns) ranges through western North America and into Mexico, with several recognized subspecies, and has a cousin in Europe. To my untrained eye that day, and based on what I subsequently learned, he is a brilliant, adaptive, resilient, and thriving little exemplar of health.

First (she has so many interesting points that first may not matter), she dips her legs. She is in constant motion. It looks exhausting, but the dance, the rhythmic little twitch, is so perfectly performed and balanced on tiny legs, so light and lithe in its little bounce as it moves around the rocks, so acutely detailed for this bird, that it does not look tiring or awkward. It simply is. Why they dip, though, is a question science still cannot answer. There are several theories, all of which threaded back to me, my aging friends, and our desire to suck the marrow out of life.

At first glance, dipping could appear to be a way to hide from predators. By staying in constant motion, near the similarly moving streams, perhaps the bird is trying to blend in and hide from predators. Second, dipping may allow the bird to see more clearly. It may help it make a better visual map of the area, or see its next meal in the turbulent stream. Or, third, the dipping may help the tiny bird communicate with others. It could warn off predators, blend in with the moving landscape, or communicate to other Dippers that it is here and perhaps in search of a mate.

However, these explanations are somewhat speculative and based on human interpretations that may anthropomorphize animal behavior. While it is logical to assume that animals prioritize survival and reproduction, connecting specific or unique behaviors to these outcomes reflects human projection.

Similarly, humans engage in constant movement- but to what end (hide from what predators, see clearly, or communicate)? Perhaps, we fear what will happen if we stay still. Movement, both mental and physical, protects us from lingering thoughts and lingering people. Movement may help us gauge what is and who is around, mitigate pain, and modulate the energy we give to others. In my later years (and absolutely, late 40s is not that late), I have learned to dip strategically. I now know better when to pulse to make clearer observations, when to dip to avoid something, and when to dance and dip to enjoy and communicate with others. Even in my stillness, in my later years’ meditation practices, I observe my thoughts and let them pass and move by. We are in constant movement to survive. And it can be exhausting. But what I learned from the Dipper is strategic resilience, not wasteful restlessness.

The Dipper is one of the few birds adapted to living in high-altitude climates. This means there is plenty of food if you can get to it. While many animals rely on nut caches or their own body fat, the American Dipper continues to work and hunt for food daily for its survival. Beneath the stream surface, the dipper accesses aquatic invertebrates such as caddisflies, mayflies, and stonefly larvae, which are a reliable source of protein, so long as the flowing water allows access to the river floor. But this is not the battle it may sound like. The American Dipper has one of the most fascinating abilities and adaptations seen in birds. She can dive underwater for food. This tiny little gray fluff ball, approximately the size of a tennis ball, thrives in the harshest of climates by the adaptations of its dense, oil-covered feathers, a slow metabolism, and sharp, clawed toes, all of which allow it to dive underwater, walk on rocks, and gather food. When the stream freezes, they simply undertake a little “altitudinal migration” to a slightly lower, unfrozen stream to find food.

She is resilient. She has adapted. She has ease in her vigilance. She is transition and grace amid the noise and turbulence. She pulses, pushes, and works hard under extremely stressful conditions –she plunges into ice-cold, turbulent water to find the tiniest bits of food. When she reaches the shore again, she dries off, enjoys her meal, and rests.

In humans, this could be called allostasis, or predictive regulation. When young, this was easy. In our 20s, we power through the workweek and rest on the weekends. It is a natural rhythm that a 40-hour workweek creates and supports. In my later years, this has become intentional and has almost taken on a physical training-like capacity, where I must plan my calm and plan my rest; otherwise, I am always diving underwater in the freezing cold. In my later years, as I watch more of my personal circle and the greater world suffer, I use these freezing cold dives to train for the next semi-frozen plunge that may take me or a loved one under.

The cold strengthens the Dipper’s cardiovascular structure, forcing it to practice thermal regulation and metabolic flexibility. The lovely bird has an enlarged preen gland, from which she spreads protective oil to help her endure the cold dives. She also, similar to many animals, has a nictitating membrane, or third eyelid, to clear her eyes and see better underwater. In midlife, my preen gland and nictitating membrane have taken many forms, but the best one is consistency. To be resilient, to dive into my own freezing, rushing streams, I have a dozen ways to support my engagement. The oil buffers the Dipper from the cold, but it also allows her to engage in the cold. Similarly, my ‘oils’ are not a repellent flak jacket meant to bounce off the people, problems, ideas, or interactions that challenge me. They are meant to help me glide through with greater ease and stronger wings, a slowing heart, gripping toes, and clearing eyes, so I can find the nutrients I need to sustain me throughout the day.

Over the years, we all learn many tools for adaptation. We have learned when to rest and when to rush, when to let stress drive us, and how to let our bodies recover. Constant vigilance for humans is exhausting, but the American Dipper teaches us that it can be easy: a soft dance, a simple knee bend, a flick of the eyelids, and a glossy coat of oil to help you observe, communicate, plunge, feed, rest, and recover.

Finally, back on shore, the American Dipper tells a story of the nearby stream and the larger ecosystem. Because of their position on the food chain, American Dippers are an “indicator species,” meaning they live where other flora and fauna also thrive. They can only live where there is health. I wish to be an indicator species. I wish to be where only I can thrive, among healthy roots, water, and air, among people, ideas, and emotions that are similarly healthy and similarly engaging in their protective oils and eyelids, in their practice of resilience amid turbulence. Or, as Haraway might extend it, I wish to continuously be shaped by these environments and, in return, provide a more careful presence in nature, paying closer attention, acknowledging my impact on the ecosystems I touch, and adjusting when needed, with care.

The Dipper, similar to other indicator species, might visit an area less frequently when there are subtle changes in the environment, and respond as needed, in kind. Poetically, as Hübl and Shidhare writes, “here, in space and time, it’s not good for me.” (Hübl and Shridhare, 2023). Or, as defined by the more holistic World Health Organization (WHO) definition of health, “not merely the absence of disease or infirmity,” but “a state of complete physical, mental, and social well-being” (World Health Organization, 1948). I strive to adjust myself, make subtle changes in my mental, social, and physical frequencies so I am always in a healthy environment. Sometimes that is a subtle shift in my attention; perhaps I should dip a little deeper, or flick my eyelids a bit more often. Other times, and while knowing that the only constant is change, I need to make a brief migration away from an environment in which I no longer thrive. My well-being should not be delayed until there is a loud ‘environmental crisis’ within me. In my youth, I made enormous changes – married, divorced, moved across the country, sought an education, travel, and career paths that I felt would land me in the best environment. Now, I can make subtle frequency shifts, almost daily, if necessary, so that my health is not careening into trouble, but rather something I caress and tend to daily.

I know there are hundreds of other stories about animals’ resilience amid turbulence, persistence amid challenge, and adapting and engaging to thrive. I will never know enough of their stories and examples. But as Annie Dillard says, “The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there” (Dillard, 1974, p. 10). More than that, I would add, we can listen, respond, and participate.

These birds reframed my anxious vigilance for health and well-being into a fluid unfolding, where I can live in calm adaptations, a gentle yet constant calibration rather than vibrating tension.

What Clark’s careful planning and Dipper’s resilience offer is not a metaphor but a model of health as continuous adjustments to the environment and others. They offer a template for living that is adaptive, responsive, and in relation to surrounding systems.

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Footnotes

Edited by: Seunguk Shin, University of Missouri, DC, United States

Reviewed by: Glen Cousquer, University of Edinburgh, United Kingdom