We were out at Race Point, looking over the flocks of shorebirds, terns, and gulls on the beach, when suddenly the mass of them rose into the air in their entirety, as if a mighty gust of wind had just blown through. And then I saw it out over the water: a large dark soaring bird with a big head and wide plank-like wings held flat, with fingerlike projections on their tips: a bald eagle.
It veered back toward the beach with the slightest flapping of its wings and descended onto the forward grassy edge of a dune. The juvenile eagle had just taken an exploratory swing over the smaller birds to see if there was one that might be easily taken. There was not, so it moved on. I could not locate it again.
It made me think: where would the eagle fly next, and why? The dark feathering, with just a bit of white beneath, identified the bird as a youngster; eagles take at least five years to reach maturity. What would this individual do for those years? Beyond securing food (mostly fish, waterfowl, and carrion), what else would occupy its days? Is it just about hunger and its relief? Certainly, it would explore, roam around on those great broad wings, and learn the region’s overall topography, the areas to hunt, the places to perch. It would also learn about the seasons and the vagaries of wind and weather.
But outside of those activities, will the eagle sometimes find a snag in a treetop and bask in the sun? Close its eyes momentarily and revel in the goodness of eagle life? Beyond the business of its life, is there room for joy?
It was long ago established that sentience and consciousness are not the exclusive domains of human beings; they exist on a spectrum in the animal world (and perhaps beyond). It is admittedly difficult to imagine consciousness as experienced by a mouse or a sand eel, but is it possible that, beyond survival, there is room for something like enjoyment in an animal’s life?
And are we human animals really that different? The vast majority of the planet’s people struggle to survive. Even in this privileged country, and certainly here on the Cape, there are those with little or no margin of comfort when it comes to food security and especially housing — they work, sometimes two or more jobs.
Even the financially secure may have challenging work schedules, children (and perhaps parents) to look after, properties to maintain, and the like. But even the busiest day must have some downtime. How we choose to spend our free time defines who we are.
“Surely Joy is the condition of life,” said Thoreau — and each of us must pursue it in his or her own way. I just returned from watching the Carnival parade: it is not my scene, but the sight of so many people enjoying themselves is heartening.
We have to start with ourselves. “I don’t know what to do with myself,” a retired friend said to me the other day. What is the self but a duffle bag with your name on it, containing all the baggage of your life — your history and genetics, proclivities and affinities, strengths and weaknesses? In short: You.
What you do with yourself is the existential challenge of your life and your one chance in eternity to declare and define yourself — and you get that chance every day. It is “your one wild and precious life,” our own Mary Oliver famously wrote. Beyond work there is play, and, for our species, community.
Hang out with people, stroll in a parade, or spread your wings for the sun’s beneficent rays.
