The park I frequent is a fraternal twin, split forever from its other half by the asphalt ribbon of Manhattan’s Second Avenue. I prefer its western side, whose shrubs and fuschia flower beds appear more verdant, and where there is—on the outer seating circle, near a cast-iron gate—a bench dedicated to “Charles Raisch III,” with the hopeful inscription LOVE LASTS FOREVER.
On weekdays, I head over at breakfast time, palms wet from Dunkin’s iced coffee. Occasionally, I’ll bring coconut yogurt and a spoon from home; most times, I forget. My morning routine, solidified over the last year and a half, has little to do with actual foodstuff. What has become crucial is the ritual emptying out of my brain—a clamorous, hyperactive organ, prone to wheeling off-course and swivelling between diversions like a sped-up pendulum. I sit on Charles Raisch’s green bench, a public loveseat, far enough from the blare of car horns that they’re rendered white noise. There, for 20 minutes or so, I focus on birdsong.
Listening to birds, really listening, is meditation akin to cloud watching. The object of one’s attention is slippery, evanescent. It is new, new, still new again with each subtle modulation. My presence is irrelevant to the warblers’ morning performance, a reminder of my relative smallness. Birds vocalise for themselves, for fellow birds—to attract mates, to signal virility and dominance, to make use of the quiet—just as clouds shapeshift across their great canvas of blue, irrespective of our witnessing.
Birdsong is at its loudest and most rambunctious during the dawn chorus, an event that begins around 4am and can stretch beyond daybreak. (In temperate countries, the chorus is most noticeable in spring.) When I can’t sleep, I eavesdrop from bed. There’s a small canopy of green outside my window, and dainty-seeming winged creatures, whose species I cannot name, launch into bright, restless melodies in the dark. Hours later, when I arrive at the park, the jumbled soundscape is still enough to engulf me.
Recent studies from the University of Surrey suggest certain birdsong can have a restorative effect on humans. We’re calmed by quiet or high frequency chirrups, or by complex sound structures like melodies. There are so many birds above me, around me, arriving in roving formations and sounding off in not-quite unison. I notice their rhythmic patterns, interruptions and syncopations. Their chorus morphs into zapping pulsations, blithe and unsteady. I am below average at many things (maths, bills, whispering), but excellent at noticing. Each morning I practice, for no one but myself, and momentarily quiet the looping thoughts. Who knew a full breakfast could be so cheap?