by Helen Verploegen, PhD researcher on mourning for lost bird biodiversity at the Centre Connecting Humans and Nature, Institute for Science in Society (Radboud University)
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Up until a few years ago, I had little eye for or knowledge of nature. I never noticed the abundance of brightly coloured Goldfinches in my city centre or the praying Buzzards above the nearby park. I could barely identify the Robin or Blackbird in the garden, only noticing their presence when they demanded my attention by moving too close to me or making loud enough noises. Over the past few years, things changed; I learned to be affected by birds.
It was human geographer Jamie Lorimer who introduced me to the concept of learning to be affected. His book ‘Wildlife in the Anthropocene: Conservation after nature’ [1], is a seminal work in my PhD thesis on mourning for endangered and extinct birds. He describes learning to be affected as the process of “disciplining one’s body to tune into [a target organism’ or ecology’] forms and dynamics” (p.9). But what is it like to go through this process? Here I offer a reflection on my own affective learning curve.
Affect is relational; it occurs in encounters with humans or non-humans and encompasses the feelings, moods and emotions that transpire in these encounters. My affective relationship with birds is the result of my affective relations with humans. My best friend and college roommate was the first to trigger my fondness for nature. When we went on evening walks through our college-town or on holidays abroad, she would bring her binoculars – sometimes also an extra pair for me – and pointed out Buzzards in the sky or butterflies in the fields. As someone who wasn’t necessarily raised in a nature-loving home, it is thanks to her that I developed a love for hiking and exploring nature. Some years ago, she introduced me to an avid birder and ecologist, who is now my partner. His love and enthusiasm for birds are infectious, and we spend much time together in nature. On our daily walks through the polders or the woods, he will point out movements and sounds that would have gone unnoticed to me before. In the words of Anna Tsing, noticing is an art [2]. An art he has mastered and I am still a student at. As Lorimer acknowledges, it takes years of training and experience “calibrating the body to learn to be affected” (p.35). My partner has been watching birds for over 20 years. His knowledge of bird identification and ecology developed without formal education but rather through hours in the field and interactions with other birders. I am now in this slow calibration process.
As I learn to be affected, fear has made place for curiosity. Ruffles in the bushes that previously scared me – if I noticed it at all – now trigger my curiosity. Increasingly I will find myself at a sudden halt on a hike in response to a distant tweet or ruffles in the bushes. The binoculars hanging around my shoulder help the calibration process, allowing me to extend my senses and notice the birds and other species too hidden to spot with bare eyes. I slow my movements and stay as quiet as possible. I don’t want to make my presence known in the hope to catch a glimpse of a hidden bird. Lorimer draws the recognisable analogy with a hunter looking at its prey.
When the ‘prey’ is in view, the question arises: what is it? Species’ names are a struggle for me. Hikes with my partner usually come with quizzes and some sighs of frustration as I forget most bird names[1]. Luckily stories help; the bird that sounds like a Beethoven song (Yellowhammer) or the one that often sits in Hawthorns (Waxwing). Nevertheless, I find joy in identification – according to Lorimer linked to corporeal charisma. It feels like an achievement and a formal introduction. The embarrassment of forgetting the name on the next encounter almost comparable to forgetting the name of a person you just met.
But what are the consequences of my learning to be affected? According to Lorimer, learning to be affected is tuning in, observing, listening, noticing. As we listen to the nature around us, we can start to care for it, protect it, and mourn its losses [3]. Ironically perhaps, the more affected I get by the birds around me, the harder I try not to affect them. As I now notice the constant presence of birds, insects, mammals or even fungi around me on my walks in the woods or the city, I want to constantly minimize my influence on them. Although their presence now positively affects me by bringing curiosity and joy to my day, I cannot quite shake the feeling that they would be better off without my presence. I feel a responsibility to stay on the beaten path in an effort not to step on anything precious. When seeing a group of birds in a field I will take a detour not to disturb them. I walk slower and quieter, not only in an effort to notice more but especially in an effort to affect less. I struggle to avoid the very encounters that shape my affective relationships with birds. Is not to affect the best way to love or care for birds? Or are these affective encounters necessary to care for them?
These questions, rather than the answers, emerge in the reflection on my own affective learning curve. In conversations with birders during personal interactions or as part of my academic research, I notice that experienced birders find it hard to reflect on how they learned to be affected. Just as my partner, most have been birdwatching for many years. It feels like a second nature to them. They have mastered the art of noticing and have calibrated to nature completely. To reflect on something that feels so ‘normal’ can be a struggle. Reflecting on my own learning curve has helped me to formulate questions that trigger them to reflect on their affective relationships and help me observe their behaviour in the field. Who introduced them to birding? What are the movements or sounds they notice in the field? What do they do in response to this noticing? How does this make them feel? As researchers studying what Lorimer calls the “passionate and embodied practice” (p.181) of nature conservation, it is helpful and even necessary to reflect on our own encounters and entanglement with the nature around us. I encourage you to try it on your next exploration outdoor.
[1] Lorimer, J. (2015). Wildlife in the Anthropocene. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.
[2] Tsing, A. (2010). Arts of Inclusion, or How to Love a Mushroom. Manoa, 2(22), pp.191-203.
[3] Burgers, L., Meijer, E. & Nowak, E. (2020). De stem van de Noordzee. Amsterdam: Boom.
[4] Feynman, R.P. (1988). What do you care what other people think? New York: Bantam Books.
[1] I find comfort in the words of Richard Feynman’s: “You can know the name of that bird in all the languages of the world, but when you’re finished, you’ll know absolutely nothing whatever about the bird…So let’s look at the bird and see what it’s doing – that’s what counts. I learned very early on the difference between knowing the name of something and knowing something.” (p.14) [4]
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