I arrived. I knew it was my group: seven people with binoculars, hiking boots, and North Face jackets, our leader Bob with a turbo-powered flashlight. We entered the forest.
The forest is so still and beautiful at night. Your primary sense shifts from looking to hearing, and it’s a totally different way of existing in the world. You need to quiet the chatter of your mind to hear the songs of the birds. The hum of airplanes and awful people playing awful music from their speakers feels particularly egregious.
Then it happens. The hoot of a Great Horned owl. The whistle of a Western Screech. Hark! Everyone perks up with excitement.
You often need to hear an owl before you can see it.
Hearing, however, is not simply a precursor to seeing, a prep step before the “main show.”
Hearing an owl is a full experience in and of itself, worthy of honor, regard, and gratitude.
I love how quiet birdwatchers are. No useless chatter or gossip, simply a “look over there” or "watch your step”. Talking is in service of birdwatching, with a few backyard sightings sprinkled in. “I saw two Red-tails mating the other day” is met with “Oh, I write down all my bird porn sightings,” followed by a few snickers.
My heart was alive, my mind taking a backseat. 8 kindred people, sharing a hushed evening, dropping into a hyperpresence that we may not even extend to our closest loved ones. Something holy, something spiritual takes over.
“There is beauty that remains within us after we’ve stopped looking.”