I’m not sure how many people really read this blog or if any of my Twitter followers will end up seeing this, but I’ve become so obsessed with the Bird Therapy Twitter that I simply have to take a little break.

I felt it brewing as soon as we broke up for the summer holiday and I became increasingly more obsessed with posting for the sake of posting, checking, re-tweeting, fishing for likes and just generally being a narcissistic nightmare. I found myself seeking validation from various people and places and it was getting a bit unhealthy.

I just can’t accept that Bird a Therapy is a positive thing, I’ll always feel inadequate and delusions of grandeur, that I’ve always been saddled with, make it feel like the worst thing ever, when really it’s a self-inflicted first world problem.

I don’t have many, if any, people that I can discuss certain things with, like this social media nightmare and the way it makes me feel. I’ve place way too much emotional emphasis on my interactions on Twitter, to the point where they were replacing any external interactions in my life. Not good.

I’ll start with a week away and then see how I feel. It’s sad that it’s come to this, but while I continue to compare my social media ‘presence’ to others with more time, creativity and talent than me, I’ll always feel shit about myself.

If anyone wants to message me then use the contact page on her, leave a comment or email me at; birdtherapy@hotmail.co.uk

Joe

Another short passage that was edited from the final book…

There is another aspect to this bird sense that manifests through the art of guessing and analogising.  It seems like the more time you spend looking at, and counting large flocks of birds, then the more adept you start to become at approximating their numbers; often with reasonable success. I have a silly theory for this skill which I call my ‘Magpie Analogy’. It works like this – you’re walking with someone who is not a birdwatcher, and you’re both sharing a leisurely countryside stroll. A right-hand turn into a footpath takes you along the edge of a stubble field, where there are several Magpies lounging in the cropped crop.

You turn to your associate and ask them how many Magpies they think there are. As an experienced birdwatcher, not only are you able to scan the field and instantly pick out the structure and colouration of individual birds, but realistically a split-second scan can raise a pretty accurate guess – there are eight birds. However, it takes your friend the time to count each single bird and to recognise each one individually in order to reach the same conclusion.

I’ve been out with birdwatchers, who seem to be able to look at a flock of Golden Plovers in the sky, that to my eyes, just appear like a whirling, shimmering mass, that’s moving and glittering in unison. To them, there’s 350 birds – just like that – scanned and noted. It’s an amazing skill to witness, and one that clearly develops over time, but I’m still working on it myself. I’ve been out with people and we’ve counted the same flock of wildfowl, but our approximated counts are always different. It may take me a little longer to achieve the same, accurate count, but if I take the time to count the birds methodically then I usually get there in the end.

The trick is to divide a large flock into smaller groups of the same number and size. I’d suggest grouping ten birds, then scanning across and accumulating these clumps into the full flock-size. I’ve tried this a few times with large flocks of waders, pigeons and finches and it works well. This flock of Linnets, I estimated at 200 birds and minus the few out of shot – it’s not a bad guess!

With the imminent arrival of our first child, I decided a few days ago, to stop posting on the Bird Therapy Twitter account until after the summer holidays. Yesterday, I found I was still obsessively checking it and I felt that the only way to counter that would be to deactivate the account.

I always thought that social media was a positive when building a profile of a brand, a product or a person. However, what I increasingly found myself doing, was comparing myself to other people and becoming despondent at not being able to reach their levels of popularity and reach. This actually made my wellbeing worse and has put me in a pretty negative place at the minute.

I’ve read up on the effects of social media use and how it can lower self-esteem and make people feel inadequate. It’s certainly had that effect on me, as I just don’t have the capacity to maintain a presence on there, yet felt that I had to. If I didn’t post – I lost followers. If I posted and it didn’t hit a certain threshold of likes – I felt useless. I had found that I was so focused on ‘being’ someone, on being known – of being accepted. That it consumed my life. I was actually so focused on my social media presence that I’d started to lose a little of who I am in the real world.

These are common feelings though. There’s a fascinating report into social media use in 8-12 year olds, aptly named ‘life in likes’. The issues are similar, almost identical – and although presented from the perspective of children, resonate entirely. I write this to show to other people who are experiencing the same thing – that you’re not alone.

On the plus side – I’m about to become a Dad and in the absence of birds locally as they nestle down again, I’ve seen some beautiful local butterflies and orchids. Pictures below.

Joe

Being my final half-term before fatherhood, I’ve been keen this week, to get as much of the book manuscript finalised as possible. Editing your own words is hard enough as it is, editing when you have OCD is hell.

Type. Delete. Type. Repeat… for hours and hours. Get angry. Stop writing. Freak out. Go for a walk. Give up.

Whenever people ask me how close I am to finishing the book, I tell them the truth, that I’m writing the final chapter. What this doesn’t account for is the amount of time I spend trying to battle my anxiety about it’s quality. It’s been really tough to stop re-editing chapters over and over again, but thankfully, positive feedback on the opening chapter has helped to soothe this process for me.

I also made a decision this week – that I’m going to design and produce a secondary PSHE teaching resource to work alongside the book. I try to avoid cross-pollinating my job and Bird Therapy, but sometimes it needs to be done – like with this. Any one who has heard me talk, will know of the Kingfisher analogy – a time when the two have married up in such a beautifully profound way. The response on social media has been great and I look forward to working with those who have contacted me.

The book is one thing, but if it can have a legacy that can follow it, then even better. I know that what I write about – both mental health AND bird-watching, can engage young people, I’ve seen it in my own work. If my story can inspire and support just one young person to recognise any issues they may have and seek help – then I’ve achieved the very pinnacle of what I set out to do.

Recently, I’ve started to receive messages from people who have been inspired, helped and touched by what I write about. As I move closer to being a parent for the first time, my life has been wobbling and balancing out into perspective – like a spiritual spirit level. I’ve written about my battle with social media, narcissism and ego at length and realising that Bird Therapy and it’s impact reaches far beyond me and my microcosm, has affirmed what it’s all about. It’s been a profound epiphany and milestone in what Bird Therapy is and can be in the future and has made me feel so relaxed and empowered – it’s awesome.

Finally, I’d like to extend a special thanks to the BTO, who invited me to speak to their staff team yesterday, in a lunchtime seminar. They made me feel so welcome and were a fantastic audience – receptive and engaged. Thanks for having me and listening to the Bird Therapy story!

Joe

Yesterday evening, although showery and overcast, I decided to go to my favourite local heath-land site to try and experience some Nightjars. As dusk descended, around 21:00pm, the rain began to ease and I became more hopeful of encountering some of these spectral fliers. For 30 minutes, leading up to this point, the rain had fallen persistently upon the arid ground. I stood it out, foolishly dedicated – maybe, wet-through – certainly, but disappointed – far from.

I heard a gentle ‘churr’, distantly to my right and walked towards it – my senses were becoming attuned to this eerie world. The rain had stopped and the mixture of stuffy air and descending gloom, made a somewhat heavy atmosphere. Suddenly, in the failing light, a bat-like, raptor-shaped shadow rose to the air in front of me. It was a patrolling male Nightjar and it flew around and over me, inspecting its territory and inspecting me.

Then another ‘churring’ male started up behind me, the first one landed even closer and they began to try and ‘out-churr’ each other. At one point, the sound of their robotic songs rose so high that it literally rang in my ears.

At least once, every early-summer, I make a pilgrimage to spend some time with these magical birds. Two years ago, I wrote about Nightjar’s for the book – at exactly the same location as last night. This forme d a key component of the chapter ‘A Pipit, a Woodlark and an evening concerto’ and I’ve decided to share an extract with you here:

“Eventually, the gorse tunnel receded and open heathland lay sprawling out to the left and right – a treeline running distantly across the shadowy vista, outlining a clear boundary. The path flowed, bowing round to the left and skirting along the edge of these trees. Walking slowly but purposefully, arriving at a natural halt, feeling like a good position to wait for the spectral fliers. Standing, waiting – really should have brought a chair. Ambling and agitating – was it the wrong evening?

Then it began.

How do you even begin to describe the ethereal singing of the Nightjar to someone who has never heard it before? The first adjective that springs to mind is ‘mechanical’ and in keeping with this word, it does seem to shift up or down a gear in pitch. The ‘jar’ in Nightjar is derived from ‘churr’, which is what the song is supposed to sound like. That churring was the exact sound reeling away behind me, so I headed back towards it, closing in on a cleared area of gorse. In the semi-darkness, sitting in full view on a tree stump and looking somewhat like a broken branch, was the purveyor of the song.

Oh, to be so close to such an oddity of the avian world. To be alone – on a warm summer evening – in the company of nothing else but nature. I spent an hour in the presence of four Nightjars, treated to an otherworldly display of churring and wing-clapping. Darkness fell and the whirring orchestra continued all around me, creating a panoramic soundscape. I couldn’t see them but I could certainly hear them and feel their presence. At a natural lull in their evening concerto, I began the long walk back to my car – feeling elated, ecstatic even. I was only a few miles from my house, yet I was able to experience something so magical and powerful. A privilege of nature.”

You can still pre-order the book from here and you’ll still get your name printed in the back as a supporter until we close the fund.

Joe

This week has been one of the most ridiculous – in a positive sense – of my life. It’s been a bit of a blur really, but as of yesterday (Friday 11th) – Bird Therapy, the book, is going to be published. I’m still in a state of shock, fuzzy and occasionally confused, I can’t quite fathom the enormity of what’s been achieved.

On Tuesday 8th, Chris Packham agreed to write the foreword for the book. He read the first chapter and liked it enough to be willing to do this – can’t wait for him to read the rest. Once I’ve read it multiple times and stopped freaking out about it!

Last week, Adam Huttly – founder of Red.inc became a patron of the book/crowdfund, which significantly boosted its progression, along with the exposure from Chris too. I started to realise that it might actually happen.

By the evening of Thursday 10th, the crowdfund had reached 92%, on a whim I messaged Bill Bailey, who had put a tweet out about it around a month ago. I only wished for him to tweet again, but he also became a patron – taking it to 99%.

I woke up the following morning, still elated, checked the page and it was 100% funded – with the pledge taking it over the line coming from my Stepfather – a beautiful way to reach the target.

To the many people that have pledged so far, I am indebted to you. Thank you for believing in the book, the message – in me. It’s really going to happen and I hope it helps many people to discover the benefits birdwatching can bring. I dreamt of getting the message out and believed a book was the way – to all those who rejected the idea or wouldn’t back the crowdfund – well, you know what!

The crowdfund will remain active, so if you’d like your name in the back as a supporter, you still can – this also means that signed copies and collectors editions will be available until closer to the publication date. I really can’t thank you enough!!!

Visit the crowdfunding page here

Joe

Since 2016, I have been committed to conducting a monthly wildfowl count at my local patch – known as a WeBS count (Wetland Bird Survey). I have missed a few counts, for a variety of reasons, but I make a date in my diary – literally – and try not to miss it. WeBS is a monthly count of the wetland birds that are present on a specified waterbody. Counts are done on the same day nationwide and this helps to map trends, not just locally but also on a national scale too. I discovered that my patch wasn’t registered as a survey site and managed to get the BTO – who co-ordinate the surveys, to register it.

A feeling of purpose and responsibility came with doing these surveys and purpose is a running theme throughout my writing. A 2014 study into purpose, by Larissa Rainey of Pennsylvania University, is interesting reading. By taking elements of many other definitions, she deduces that there are five key ‘ingredients’ of purpose. Two of these ingredients are particularly relevant to birdwatching – that purpose provides direction and creates goals for the future and that it provides a benefit and/or connection to someone or something other than the self.

Birdwatching certainly provides direction and goals for many people. This can be through twitching and listing – with a goal to see more birds than other people. Or perhaps, specialising in learning about one family – woodpeckers, for example. In my own experience, I longed to be part of something – to feel a sense of connection and community. I also have a personal goal – to share my message about the therapeutic benefits of birdwatching with as many people as I can. Birdwatching brings opportunities for lots of altruistic actions – whether that’s inspiring the next generation or sharing sightings with others, it definitely connects one to someone or something other than the self – even when that connection is with the birds themselves and the natural environment.

My monthly count made me feel good. I was part of a network, a web of other people who, on the same day, were scanning their own flocks of wildfowl on a local lake, or dreaming of a rare Grebe paddling out of the reed fringes. I was part of an initiative, a citizen scientist. As well as having a count to look forward to every month, it strengthened the bond I have with my patch and ultimately, led to me spending more time there. I also noticed that this produced feelings of consistency and purpose, that were having a positive impact on my wellbeing – helping to curb the inflated sense of responsibility that I often tarnish my everyday life with.

In the hot summer months, we used to spend time on their friend’s boat on Salhouse Broad. The adventure always began by parking at the public car-park, dark and shaded. It was surrounded by seemingly ancient trees and however hot it was outside of this dim vacuum, it was always cooler as you strolled down to the broad itself. A ten-minute walk followed, meandering along stretches of muddy pathways and boardwalk. Periodically, along the route, stood gnarled trees with huge chunks of them missing. Although devoid of life, I would breathe it back into them by running and dancing around their cocoons-like trunks. Woodland became nettle-bed, which then became reed-bed and occasionally sunlight would filter through, vitalising the murk with glittering cascades of green and gold.

Towards the end of the path, soil turned to sand and the vegetation began to open out, offering options. Here you had to make a choice – boardwalk or broad-walk? The pull of the open water usually outweighed any other option here – broad walk. I would run, free, up the hill that borders the south edge of the broad. Onward and through the prickly thicket, a rabbit-run made my years of gambolling children. Upon reaching the apex point, I was the captain of the broad, looking down across the surface – day boats speckling the water and families frolicking at the water’s edge. It was a picture-postcard scene, it was Norfolk in a nutshell.

They used to moor up at the waters edge on the south side of the broad and it was from here that we would board the great ship. The water always seemed crystalline and clean, unaffected by the algal growth that’s present today. The boat was the setting for the first steps in my avian tutelage, where my water-based lessons in recognising the commonest wildfowl began. We started with simple and easy-to-remember birds: Mute Swans, Coots and Moorhens. All predominantly one colour, although the larger Coot with its white bill, versus the more compact, red and yellow -beaked Moorhen, was the first differential between bird species I learnt.

What was the slender-necked regal-looking bird that kept diving below the broads’ surface? A flash of dazzling white leading up to a ruffled rufous lions’ mane, satin-white face and sharp grey bill. What was this handsome bird, darting and diving around us. He told me what it was –another species I would be able to identify forever – unmistakable and elegant – a Great Crested Grebe. He would tell me about Kingfisher’s and their beguiling, azure beauty. We never saw one, but I dreamt of the day I would see my first. Would it be fishing? Would I be able to watch it properly?