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Chiffchaffs, Sedge Warblers, Kingfishers and Coffee

 I am standing in the middle of the road in the Lower Village, and I am staring at my phone. I am dressed for a walk: faded felt Bolivian sunhat, bird decorated recycled plastic backpack from the RSPB (best backpack ever, by the way) and boots. Some clothes as well, in case you were worried. It is seven a.m. on the last day of April. A heatwave is forecast; the world around is singing with the surprise and scents of early summer. 


And I am standing staring at my phone. 


A man marches past at purposeful speed with a word, ‘Morning’. He too is thumbing his phone. Automatically, I judge him. He is missing the day in his rush to the station. I always judge people who are on their phones. How can they be confined to tech when the sounds and burgeoning fresh colours of life surround them? 


But clutched in my hand is my own device, and my eyes are downcast and focused on the pixels. 


But THIS is Merlin. I want to excuse myself, to run after him and show him the app. This is a GOOD reason to be on my phone. Surely. When I press the arrow in the green circle, Merlin listens to birdsong. As it hears each new voice it lists them, with a picture. And when the same sound is heard again the name of the bird pulses a dusky yellow. As I stare I am learning, distinguishing individual parts, hearing solos when once I simply enjoyed the choir.


On that walk I learn the sound of a kingfisher. I see a flash of blue, knowing where to look because of the call. A sedge warbler clutches a reed by the river, and I can see orange inside its beak and throat as it sings with its whole small being. Before today I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a sedge warbler. Chiffchaffs are apparently chiffing and chaffing all over the place, but so far they are completely invisible.


When I get home, I eat breakfast in the garden. House sparrows chirp and a blue tit machine guns its high pitched call from the mountain rowan. I know there is half a cup of coffee waiting for me in the kitchen, and I am looking forward to it. It will round off my toasted sourdough and egg and bacon perfectly. I will sit and listen to birds while I savour and sip. 


But when I go to reclaim it from next to the sink, where I left it earlier, it is gone. I am disappointed. As I expect, the cup is upside down in the top rack. The coffee must have gone down the sink, as my wonderful husband kindly emptied and then filled the dishwasher. So sad. The perfect moment whisked away in efficiency and helpfulness. (Next time, I’ll leave a note.)


It all makes me think about the things we don’t know. I don’t know what all those poor judged passersby are actually doing on their phones (we could play a game, ‘Worthy Things People Might be Doing on their Phones’ - although actually, why should they be worthy?). How many times have I assumed I am doing the right thing, when God knows there is nuance and gentleness and a time to hold back while true purposes unfold? May I learn to listen more, with my spirit as well as my ears, and drop my swift judgements, my automatic clearances and assumptions. Walk lightly. Listen well.


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