Of Birds and Dreams

Let Me Tell You about Bobolinks

Throughout May, the meadows grew long at the state park near my house. I wondered about it because the grass reached a point where it was starting to grow over the usually well-maintained trails. Then a friend explained that Bobolinks nest in meadows, and, to protect them, Maryland state parks hold off on mowing their fields until the baby Bobolinks have fledged.

In case you were wondering about my bird nerd credentials, they are as follows: I have binoculars, the Merlin Bird ID app brings me unfettered joy, and The Big Year is one of my favorite movies (trust me: just watch it). So when I learned about the Bobolinks, I immediately googled and then looked for them on my next walk. They’re easy to spot: The males have white on their backs rather than their breasts (pretty unusual for birds) and a patch of yellow on their heads. They have a spunky little song too.

Along with my newfound Bobolink obsession, I became captivated by the word fledge, which means to rear until ready for flight or independent activity. For some reason it got me wondering about how we handle our hopes and dreams until they’re ready to fledge. It’s estimated that 70 percent of Bobolinks’ eggs and nestlings are lost to predators each year. I’m willing to bet our hopes and dreams suffer a similar—and staggering—rate of loss.

What are you dreaming about and planning for? The bigger question might be this: Are you even dreaming?

In early 2020 I read Rob Bell’s How to Be Here, and it changed my life, as the best books do. He talks about finding your ikigai, which is the Japanese word for what gets you out of bed in the morning. It’s your reason for being, and it can change over the course of your life as you change and grow. Your ikigai isn’t necessarily about the work you do for pay, although that could be part of it. It’s more pervasive and multifaceted than that—it’s really about who you are and what that leads you to do.

My dog Bear loved nothing more than chasing down a frisbee. When he had access to a creek for a drink and a swim, he wouldn’t quit. That dog running back to me with a frisbee in his mouth was living his ikigai.

What do you love? When do you experience joy? What makes you angry? Why wouldn’t all of that matter?

You may not think you’re a big deal or that you have anything of value to contribute to the world, but that’s just you believing something that isn’t true. Your love, your passion, your you-ness make this world different, and that affects us all.

Dreams don’t have to be grand. You don’t have to dream of launching a nonprofit or writing an Academy Award–winning screenplay. Those are great dreams, but your reason for getting out of bed every morning might be to take care of your kids or your aging parent. There’s no need to judge whether your current ikigai is “big” or “small.” Is the world not transformed when we love the people in our lives the way they deserve to be loved?

Do you have something stirring in your heart? Then make some room for it. Hold it gently. Don’t crush it by considering it small and unworthy or too big and impossible. Let it breathe. Don’t mow down the field before your dreams fledge.

A friend gave me a new journal around the time I started reading How to Be Here, and I decided to make that journal a place where I wrote down my dreams. I made lists of what I wanted to see happen in my life, of new things I wanted to do. I dared to dream some big dreams, and I listed little seedling ideas too. You might want to do the same. Why shouldn’t everyone have a dream journal? What if 70 percent of our dreams didn’t die?

Telling a trusted person or two about your dreams is another way to help them grow. Just make sure they are people who get excited about possibilities and not the sort who love to point out flaws and complications. Make sure they are encouragers. We do nothing in this life by ourselves. We need each other.

I read a quote recently from a book about Francis of Assisi. The author, Bruce Epperly, said, “Within the confine limitations of our life, our gifts are lived out and expand.” I’m here to ask you to live your gifts. Don’t mow the fields before your dreams have fledged.

In the woods I am captivated by both silence and bird song. By texture, color, fragrance. By the varying shape of leaves and fungi. This world is a feast, and it’s richer because of you and your dreams.