I told myself I wanted my yard to be recognized as a bird sanctuary for all the right reasons. But two older ladies with clipboards and nature-ID phone apps offered me a more well-rounded perspective.
From first light to sun down, the land around my house is filled with near constant birdsong, filtering down from the tall pine trees, bursting from the tangled vines and dense shrubs along the street. A wildlife refuge certification sign at a local restaurant prompted me to look into recognition programs for my own yard. Certainly if I had a little nature sign at my driveway it would be a clarion call to neighbors and passersby about the importance of stewarding our yards and green spaces for our feathered friends.
But somewhere beneath my idealism was the desire to merely feel good about doing something good, to get a "pat on the back." I discovered the wildlife refuge certification was self-confirmed—check a few boxes, pay some money and presto . . . get the sign in the mail. I didn't want to appeal to my vanity, so I kept researching. A Google search later I found a local birding non-profit offered a bird sanctuary certification with a more rigorous vetting process. My street was named after a bird and was frequented by birds, so how hard could it be?
I sent in paperwork, paid a fee and chose a site inspection date giving me several weeks to prepare. Bird habitat? Check. I'd inherited a yard frequented by hawks, owls, cardinals, robins, finches and jays—and those were just the ones I could identify. Sustainable practices? Check. Birds picked through my compost and leaf litter and perched on top of my rain barrels. Native plant species? There were some native trees, grasses and flowers in the yard and along the nearby stream I’d identified from park clean up projects and a phone app. However, a large portion of the remaining vegetation consisted of European and Asian shrubs that had been planted by the previous owner. These shrubs were mature and appealing, frequently serving as roosting spots for birds. That's what mattered, right? So I spread fresh cypress mulch, planted more flowers, trimmed the hedges (while leaving the clippings on the ground), refilled the bird feeder and cleaned out the nesting box. I was going to be as ready as I could be.
The morning sky was overcast as the women approached my house. Their email had alerted me they’d come as a pair. I assumed this was a safety precaution, like two wrens darting between tree branches. Gray-haired and serious, they pointed to the darkened windows of my house and began their questioning immediately. Had I added dots on my windows to prevent bird strikes? Did I keep my lights off at night? What about those invasive plant species beside the house, and the height of the nesting box off the ground? As we toured the yard, they waved their phones around, identifying plant species and pointing out the ones that should be removed and replaced. I’d heard of and tried removing some of the problem plants before, but it seemed daunting to swap them all out. Wasn't it just the ones that spread quickly, like kudzu vines, that were the most threatening? Based on the women’s repeated instructions, I could sense the importance of their message. But I wondered—weren’t the birds adapting to their surroundings, like we all do in a changing environment?
I took notes as the women gave me landscaping suggestions and bird bath ideas. They were detailed and observant, training a critical eye on the space that felt commonplace yet wonderful to me. They showed me an app that identified bird calls, and their phone screens listed off half a dozen species filling the air with their chatter. Unfortunately, the birds didn’t seem to speak in my favor. Each time the women asked if I had a particular plant species in my yard, I shook my head with as much dignity as possible. When the inspectors left, I was humbled, fairly sure I would not pass their test.
The official decision appeared in my email inbox a few days later. While it pained them to say the yard had not passed, I was at least headed in a good direction. But the native to non-native plant ratio was not up to snuff. In the back of my mind, I knew this was meant to be a learning experience. Still, I wanted someone to say “look at what you have!” and “what a special place!” Instead, I had to fall back on the affirmation of birdsong.
Despite my disappointment, I tried to make some space for their advice. I went on a walk and listened to a lecture the women recommended. Biologist Doug Tallamy described the close web of relationships between insects, plants and birds native to a particular region. How one bird will feed thousands of caterpillars to their young, which means collecting these squishy critters within a small radius of their nest. However, only certain types of plants can sustain caterpillars or attract butterflies, and they must be located near a suitable nesting habitat.
As I considered the mini ecosystem within my yard, which doesn’t stop at an invisible property line, my vision sharpened and broadened like a hawk’s. I had been too focused on settling for how things were now, simply maintaining the status quo, rather than prioritizing continuous learning and improvement. If we don’t take responsibility to cultivate with care and recognize the impact of our participation in nature, we can upset a special balance, we can run roughshod over natural processes that promote a greater flourishing for all beings.
Each plant I encounter has a story, a history. Each insect, bird, reptile and mammal has a backstory, each of the millions of species on earth, of which I and my kin are only one. In every place, some species have been rooted and adapted within environment for a longer time than others. They are native to that area. They offer a deeper, older, and more established history of associations and cooperation with other native species than those transported and relocated by humans.
As a side note, the worrying association between native plants and native people kept coming to mind as I researched this topic. There are ongoing disastrous consequences of racism, disrespecting native peoples and treating human migrants as dangerous or a threat. Was it unwise to sort species into native and non-native? A helpful essay by gardener and author Nancy Lawson eased my concern. She argues that humans are just one species within our endlessly diverse planet, one with a unique ability to migrate and adapt across ecosystems, so we cannot responsibly apply the same logic to humans as all other species. However, it is still worth considering the delicate relationships across the human community as it relates to land and place, and the harmful legacy of colonialism and exploitation. We can learn to respect each other, make space for each other, take responsibility for how we have hurt each other, and learn to collaborate as just one part of our larger global ecosystem.
No doubt it is life-giving to acknowledge and delight in the beauty of the present, of how things are now, right in front of us. But as I’ve heard biologist Ayana Elizabeth Johnson point out, do we really want to settle for “sustainability?” Who wants to think of a marriage or relationship as merely sustainable, tolerable? How about instead we shoot for “flourishing?” Rather than seeking recognition for something I had little influence in creating, why not seek out support and take responsibility for uplifting my environment, removing the barriers that throttle its potential?
This obviously requires time and effort to understand, learn, implement, observe, react, teach and protect. It requires learning about the vast, interconnected relationships in our midst, and our place among them. We can glean from the wisdom of Indigenous cultures and traditions, people who have studied and cared for a local region over generations. David Haskell wrote about his daily practice of observing the same small circle of rocks, leaves and critters over the course of a year in The Forest Unseen. Margaret Renkl's book Late Migrations recounts poignant vignettes of her family history, interspersed with meditations on the cycles of life and death in her yard and journal entries about caring for her ailing mother. There are so many incredible, subtle and stunning natural stories we can learn from.
In the end, I was faced with a choice. I could follow a prescribed checklist to retest for the certification, hopefully hitting an elusive ratio of native species. Or I could let the birds tell their own story while I watched and learned, adding to it with care, giving myself and others grace as we try our best to participate. Long before the bird inspectors arrived, I had a close, educational encounter with a bird outside my front door. A bright yellow goldfinch swooped onto a dead flower on the front step and pecked at its fragile browned petals. Later, when the women walked eagle-eyed through my yard, they pointed out this same flower and lauded me for leaving the dead parts for birds to eat. Silently, I smiled. I couldn’t take much credit. I’d found this practice by accident, from seeing that brilliant, tiny bird feast on the decaying plant outside my door.
I didn’t need a certification to teach me this. Just time and observation, and a willingness to wonder at how nature knows how to thrive, all on its own.
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