Hi friend,
Apologies for the technical difficulties. This email should have all the right images in it. If you wrote in to let me know, I appreciate you.
Bird Mail is back.
You probably have some questions:
A. How did this get here?
- What the heck is Bird Mail?
III. What does “back” even mean?
Here are some answers:
A. You’re getting this because at some point—probably years ago now—you signed up to get the occasional missive from me in your inbox. Thank you for doing that, by the way. It’s been a really, really long time, and if the following email is of minimal value to you, or you get too much email and simply can’t handle another, you can unsubscribe. You will be missed, but I totally understand.
\ 2. Bird Mail is you only-on-(some)-Tuesdays dose of internet ephemera, artfully arranged by me, Bruce Layman. The first season of Bird Mail ran some 42 issues, and then unceremoniously disappeared for a long while—COVID kind of put a damper on my writing spirits.
III. Now the second season begins. It has some edges this time, which are simultaneously constraining and liberating. Season 02 will be shorter, say 12 issues, with a little more structure: primarily photo essays, and a few links you’ll have to trust me are worth clicking on. (I’m stealing this idea from the excellent Paynter Jacket Company Newsletter and their “Links to the Unknown” section.)
Onward.
I have been thinking a lot about “places” lately—lately being these last two weird years.
Places we call home.
Places we have been stuck(?) in.
Places we visit.
Places we overlook.
I spent a good chunk of my quaran-time walking with a camera. No more than usual probably, I’ve upped my daily walking since adopting Navy Bean, but my relationship to our daily walks has changed significantly.
When you’re forced to walk a similar path every day it’s easy to become blind to it. Pop the AirPods in with a podcast, block out the world, and retrace the same steps twice a day ad nauseam.
There’s an alternative though. You can choose to Notice. Take out the earbuds and listen to the birds, the conversations, the sounds of your area. Breathe deeply and smell how the grass and the flowers change on the winds. Look at the signs, the graffiti, the familiar faces. There is so much to experience if you take the time to try.
Walking with a camera helps you notice even more. I have been looking at the trees that make up my neighborhood, seeing how the seasons and the light change them, finding beauty in their just being there.
I spent spring of 2020 watching hawks build a nest and raise two eyas—the word for young hawks—and saw them grow and stalk the trees. I sat in their shade as Navy Bean ran about “the meadow” making dog friends. I saw them covered with a rare snow, not once, but twice in a month. And I watched as they changed with each—seemingly more extreme—summers and winters.
I have been photographing this tree in particular because, despite its broken, lopsided appearance—its bare branches the perch for a fledgling hawk learning to hunt, its twisted branches splayed out in all directions—this spring it leafed out, showing signs of recovery.
And then, today on my walk with Navy Bean, I looked at the tree line and something was amiss. It took me a moment.
It was gone.
With no warning, with no ceremony, it was cut down.
Goodbye, old friend.
Gathered Links
I’m not entirely sure what this season of Bird Mail is going to bring. My goal is to enjoy the writing. I hope you’ll join me.
Your friend,
Bruce
If you enjoyed this issue and aren't already getting Bird Mail every other Tuesday, you can join the small, but growing, group of birders here(https://buttondown.email/birdmail) to get more—but not too many—emails about design, bicycles, art, technology, and anything else on the internet I find worth adding to my collection. If you want to share Bird Mail with someone you know, simply forward this email to them.