I went to Central Park last weekend to do some birdwatching. Hoping to take advantage of the early spring migration, I ducked crowds of families and tourists and walked deep into The Ramble, a forested area with some of the best birding in the city.
There’s a beautiful meadow at the entrance to The Ramble. I always pass by it without stopping. Two summers ago, I came to that meadow once a week for group therapy at one of my lowest points. While I found the sessions useful, the true healing I did that summer came from the park itself. I’d wander around afterward and lose myself in the trees. It was the only time I felt safe with my thoughts. The park held my sorrow and brokenness tenderly, asking for nothing in return. I don’t skip that meadow because it reminds me of darker times. I skip it because I respect what it holds, and feel no need to add anything more. There are other places in the park to discover, and I keep moving.
Speaking of therapy, I recently “graduated” from my weekly sessions. After four years of uninterrupted counseling, starting in 2020, I knew it was coming. My therapist, the best I’ve ever had, had started to seem…bored during our hour together. I sensed we were approaching the end of the road, but I’d been dragging my feet to postpone the actual conversation. For one, I would genuinely miss talking to her. She’s the first therapist I’ve had who is neurodivergent. Working with a female therapist who is autistic and has ADHD was transformative. We spoke the same language. I didn’t have to explain my struggles because she was living with them. She challenged and affirmed me. Our work together revolutionized my relationships and my entire worldview.
But therapy had also become a security blanket. I was afraid I’d get depressed again the minute I stopped. After my last encounter with severe depression, I’d sworn to never again dance along the line between life and death. It felt like tempting fate to acknowledge I was doing well. But my therapist didn’t agree. “You’ve spent so many years thinking of yourself as an endless project. If you stay in therapy, you’ll keep looking for something to fix,” she said. “You’re not the project anymore. Go find a project. Go live your life.” I was proud, sad, and a little afraid to be set free. No matter how compassionate her methods and sound her reasoning, this was an unmooring of sorts.
Back to the park. My promising outing had turned sweaty and frustrating. The drone of police helicopters drowned out the birds, and I found myself bouncing from place to place in search of a better spot. Spring migration, like birding in general, poses the danger of becoming a competitive sport. Though designed for observation and communion with nature, it can quickly turn to something more like conquest. It’s hard to fight the collector’s urge to check as many birds as possible off one’s “life list.” I heard people around me complain about “not seeing anything good” that day. One young man with a long-lens camera was actually sprinting around the park, yelling out bird sightings into his Apple Watch. The Apple Watch guy is one type of birder. The old man with the wild beard sitting quietly on a bench, just watching, appreciating every sparrow and robin, is another. I strive to be the old man, but I was behaving like an Apple Watch guy.
I was stressed out and irritated. I had come seeking solace and found more distraction instead. I was moving too fast. I needed to stop. I found a flat rock in a small clearing off the walking path and sat down with my notebook. I put my phone back in my purse.
As I sat thinking, I realized my therapist’s final advice for me left too much room for interpretation. I understood the part about not being the project anymore. But did I really need a new project? Not having a project has never been an issue for me. I have millions of projects: dozens of unfinished essays, ideas for businesses I’ll never start, half-crocheted blankets, and abandoned notions. I didn’t need a project. I needed to stop trying to make everything in my life a project.
I’ve recently been possessed by a drive to optimize and curate many aspects of my existence: my wardrobe, my bookshelf, my Spotify playlists, my health, and even my social media feeds. All are worthy pursuits individually. But taken together and pursued to obsession, it all blurs together. Nothing ever satisfies. All the scrolling and seeking worsens the endless stream of noise inside my head. Everything gets flattened, the war in Gaza merging with remembering to buy coffee filters and wondering if my skinny jeans were a dead giveaway of my older millennial lameness. I’ll think about all of it and take no action, feeling more and more like a failure.
The part of my brain craving stimulation has been thriving. I’m always feeding it with something new and shiny (Kate Middleton conspiracy theories? Yes please. Work deadlines and laundry? Thanks but no thanks). That kind of mental noise can be sinister. It fades into the background. It becomes no more noticeable than the constant hum of an air filter. It drains you. It takes you away from yourself. You’re being swept out to sea and you don’t even notice.
As I sat on the rock, I felt my heartbeat slow. My attention narrowed to a single sparrow burrowing in the leaves. I noticed my breathing. And then something amazing happened. This essay wrote its own ending. I couldn’t have contrived or fabricated such a potent metaphor. It could only have occurred miraculously and by chance.
In my meditation, my eyes landed on a resplendent female cardinal astride a fence post a few feet from me. Her feathers were yellowish brown; a blend of butter, egg yolk, and cinnamon shades. Her crimson crown gleamed in the late afternoon light.
She stayed with me for long minutes, hopping from branch to branch but never straying out of my sight. I swear I heard her speak: See? We were waiting for you all along. All you had to do was be still a moment.
I know therapy will always be there when I need it. There is value in analysis and reflection. I’m forever grateful for the privilege. But I have more to learn, and I suspect those lessons will go beyond language and strategies.
On this day, I thought about how there are no projects in nature beyond what’s needed to survive: building a nest, finding a mate, and hunting for food. All these are cyclical and seasonal, and the reward is inherent. How silly we must look to a cardinal or a bluejay, constantly on the move with no clear goal other than distraction or victory.
My current therapist is a bird. She sings of seeds and sunlight. She’s unafraid of silence and stillness. It’s the greatest privilege to spend a few moments in her presence. I watch her glide away on quiet wings, free and undaunted. I set off again down the path. Seeking nothing. Grateful for everything.
Natalie Bograd 