Keep on Happying

the birds will show you how

Some days you can’t win. And sometimes those days come all in a row. I had a low streak last week, and I can’t even put my finger on how or why. I was stressed out, even though I finished a big project at work early and had a little time to catch up. Maybe it was the holiday season, or the reality of cold dark mornings of winter setting in, or paying too much attention to the negativity of the news. It doesn’t matter, really. That’s the point.

I had a great weekend, despite my stress and mood. I drove up for a monthly meetup with friends, for a session of our Spelljammer campaign, and had a wonderful Saturday of good food, good friends, and hours of good play. And yet, nearly as soon as it was over, my oppressive mood returned and made for a lonely trip to my hotel. A rainstorm blew in the next day, souring my plans for a hike with a friend. I chose to go for a hike anyway, at a reserve that’s been encroached upon by the rich people who live around it.

Mills Reservation is named after the rich family who bought the land and donated it to the county. Parts had served as a quarry, and the land was groomed by the Olmsted Brothers into the parklike setting it is today. It was busy even on a gloomy Sunday, with dogwalkers, hikers, trail runners, and even a couple mountain bikers sharing the trails. I was enjoying my return to this old stomping ground—we used to sneak here to drink and smoke in high school—until I saw a pile of dirt obscuring the best view of the Manhattan skyline.

I’d forgotten that during the pandemic, a billionaire bought a mansion under the cliff and demolished two historic buildings from the 1850s, as he planned to put in an extension to the mansion that included an indoor pool and a bowling alley. He did this without consulting the zoning board or the historical association, who both put the kibosh on his plans after he knocked down the buildings. Now, out of spite apparently, he’s left a pile of dirt on his land that blocks one of the best public views, surrounded by No Trespassing Signs. Some days there aren’t enough guillotines.

I predicted something like this in my story “Good People,” which is set in nearby High Mountain Reservation, a natural oddity with a swampy wetland atop a small mountain, and crumbling pillars of basalt that supposedly inspired H.P. Lovecraft’s imagery in “At the Mountains of Madness.” I haven’t followed the story of the globetrotting billionaire in detail, and it may be that the dirt will disappear soon. I like my fictional ending better.

My attempt at raising my spirits with a hike was unsuccessful, but I didn’t let that stop me. I visited Watchung Booksellers, my favorite independent bookshop, and picked up gifts and a retrospective of the work of Hayao Miyazaki, my favorite animator. And a book about Butts. Around the corner was a good bagel shop, so I got a toasted black Russian bagel (that’s dark pumpernickel with sesame seeds) with lox and smear, and devoured it in the car as I visited Time Warp Comics and Games, the nerdery shop I’ve been frequenting since I was a teenager, and bought a Junji Ito book for myself, and a My Hero Academia figurine for my niece, for Christmas.

This improved my mood a bit, enough to tackle the drive home in the rain and fog, listening to good music and podcasts. On the way home I stopped at another bookstore to pick up a nice copy of The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin that they held for me, and then grabbed coffee and a pineapple kolache at the Four Green Cats Cafe for the rest of the ride home. And I picked up dinner at Boaggio’s, the makers of the best Italian bread in South Jersey, for some extra comfort food. This helped a bit, but when I got home, a large branch had fallen off the tree in front of our house, and I had to lug it out of the street in the rain before unloading the car.

My mood was sour into Monday morning, when chilly rain and thick fog kept me indoors. It felt like everyone I worked with had the same malaise putting us on edge. By that afternoon, I’d had enough. The rain had cleared, and I put on my boots and headed to Timber Creek. I had the place mostly to myself. No one walks to hike in wet leaves and mud. The birds were mostly gone, still hiding from the storm. A lone turkey vulture circled the parade grounds, looking for anything killed by the storm. The vulture and some Canada geese were all that was there to look at; I heard a northern flicker, but never saw it.

So I decided to take my monocular and watch the vulture a while. They don’t have the looks of other birds, but they know how to soar. This one had a chum or mate, and they took turns scanning the creek for a heron’s leavings, or a drowned rat. They were soon joined by a redtailed hawk, and I watched them all for several minutes, silently searching the water for a bite to eat. They made my day.

A Louisiana egret in a ditch telling you to cheer up. Nor egrets!

The next morning, I accepted that it would be too cold and dim to go for an enjoyable bike ride, and managed to squeeze one in after lunch while the sun was up. The birds were scarce on my way into the woods, but on the way out, I surprised robins and cardinals, and they graced me with their flashes of red, for which I was very grateful. They reminded me of a bad day I had many years ago, where everything seemed to go wrong, and my temper flared. When I walked outside to cool off, a bird shit on my jacket, as if on cue. All I could do was laugh.

I’ve learned to let birds cheer me up by their presence instead of their feces. What worked was that I kept trying, even though my mood fought back. I didn’t let the gloom win. I gave the birds a chance. Someone called birds living shards of light. Or maybe it was harbingers of life. Or bringers of joy. They are all three, perhaps because we only wish we could fly and sing as they do. They ask nothing; you can scatter a little seed, but if you let the trees grow, they’ll probably visit you whether you want them or not. From the broad-shouldered undertaker of a vulture, to the vibrant chirping puff of a Carolina wren, they will show you how to live deliberately, surer than Thoreau ever could, if you only let them.

And if the birds don’t tell you, sometimes the sun or the moon will. This pink sunset over the blue neon of a gas station made me smile. This is not meant as a substitute for mental health care, but if it’s all you can afford, I hope it helps.