Listen, Watch, Breathe: Birding as a Multisensory Practice
- Najika Akane
- Apr 8
- 8 min read
Updated: Apr 26
A Practice of Attention
Birding with All Your Senses
I did not begin birding with names or tools. I began with a pause—
not the kind that comes from decision, but the kind that rises unbidden, when the world shifts slightly and you feel it before you understand it.
There was a flicker at the edge of my vision. A sound—high, unfamiliar, not meant for me but somehow heard. Then, a stillness.
Not silence, but the kind of pause that feels deliberate—like the world is waiting to be seen.
It made me think of a story I used to read as a child—All Summer in a Day, by Ray Bradbury. A classroom of children, born on Venus, where the sun only appears once every seven years.
Most of them had never felt it.
The sun—its warmth on the skin, its glow behind closed eyelids—had become myth.
And as a child, I was devastated by that idea:
that something so essential, so quietly woven into the fabric of being human, could remain unfelt. Unknown.
And yet here we are.
Living on Earth.
Surrounded by birdsong we do not recognise.
Feathers we cannot name.
Calls we hear but never decipher.
Names are powerful.
They do not grant ownership. They grant presence.
To name a bird is not to cage it—it is to let it exist more clearly in the space between you.
To speak a name aloud is to say: I saw you. You were not background. You belonged to the moment.
And once something is named, it can be remembered.
Not kept in the possessive sense,
but kept in the way we catalogue the things that moved us.
Kept like sunlight on skin.
Kept like a voice that once called out, and was heard.
Birding Is a Sensory Practice
The Body as Lens
Birding isn’t just visual. It’s everything.
The shape of sound.
The weight of stillness.
The way the air changes a second before something lifts from the ground.
Birding is not just the art of seeing, but of offering your presence—quietly—to a world that responds, not with recognition, but with continuity.
Sight
It doesn’t begin with recognition.
It begins with a flicker—just movement at the edge of your knowing.
A blur between branches.
A shape perched too still.
A silhouette on a wire that wasn’t there a moment ago.
Sometimes it’s obvious: rainbow lorikeets tearing through the canopy like brushstrokes from a hand that didn’t mean to hold back.
Other times, it’s the absence of motion that catches you—
the way stillness can feel occupied.
You start to realise that sight isn’t just seeing.
When you slow down long enough to study, not just glance.
So much of what we miss is hidden behind the names we throw at things.
How many names have you given to birds you never truly saw?
You uttered ducks.
But were they ducks—
or just the shape of your expectation, mistaken for fact?
You think you’re looking at a duck—but it’s a coot.
A rail, actually.
With lobed toes and a mind of its own.
The longer you watch, the more your certainty unravels.
Not everything on water quacks.
Not everything that swims belongs to what you thought you knew.
Birding humbles you.
It asks you to notice again—and this time, properly.
Sound
Birds begin in sound.
Long before the eye catches colour, the ear catches feeling.
A currawong calls like memory stretched across the morning.
A fairywren ticks beneath the leaves, keeping time for something unseen.
Even at night, the trees are full of songs—
sharp notes tossed into the dark,
some warning, some longing,
some love, unrequited but still sung.
You begin to hear it not as noise,
but as conversation.
Melodies shaped like questions.
Pauses that wait for an answer.
Not all birds sing.
But all of them
change the silence they leave behind.
Touch & Body Awareness
Birding teaches the body to listen.
You feel the shift in wind,
the softness of soil accepting your weight.
Your hand lifts before your mind does.
Your knees bend without command.
Stillness becomes a kind of knowing.
Not silence, but alignment—
as if the world will only speak when you stop speaking over it.
You are not chasing.
You are being shaped into a shape the field no longer resists.
Smell
You smell a wetland before you see it.
Algae. Mud. The mineral sting of still water in heat.
The sharp green of trampled sedge.
Eucalypt sap in dry gullies.
Sun-warmed bark. Smoke from a fire that isn’t yours.
Smell is the first map.
It tells you what belongs here.
What doesn’t.
Some birds stay hidden.
But you can still feel their world in your lungs.
How to Begin: Low-Cost Birding
Being present, being human
You don’t need gear. You don’t need to travel. You don’t even need to leave your suburb. Here’s how to start:
• Pick a place. A park. A quiet street. Even your balcony.
• Go early. Birds are most active in the morning.
• Be still. Don’t try to “find” them. Just wait.
• Bring a notebook, or don’t. Jot what you see, or just let it stay with you.
• Look up. Look down. Birds aren’t always in trees. Some are on the ground. Some right beside you.
Tools
Tools for noticing more—sharpening detail, not just devotion.
Sometimes, presence isn’t enough.
You want to see closer.
To name what you’ve seen.
To hold onto the moment before it slips away.
Tools don’t make you a better birder—
but they help you notice more clearly,
and remember more precisely.
These aren’t upgrades. They’re companions.
Binoculars
Binoculars are one of the most useful tools for bird identification.
They allow you to see birds in greater detail—plumage patterns, eye colour, bill shape, leg colour—all essential for accurate ID.
A good beginner size is 8x42:
• 8x = 8x magnification (brings the bird closer)
• 42mm = wide lenses for brighter images, especially in early morning or low light
This size offers a comfortable balance between field of view, brightness, and ease of use—great for most habitats.
Why they help:
• Spot field marks from a distance
• Watch behaviour without disturbing the bird
• Improve accuracy for species that look similar at first glance (like honeyeaters or raptors) What to look for:
• Crisp image, especially at the edges
• Comfortable to hold—weight matters
• Smooth, fast focus wheel
• Weatherproofing (especially in humid/wet habitats)
Tip: Try before you buy.
Everyone’s eyes and hands are different—comfort matters more than brand.
Look for waterproofing, smooth focus, and a weight you can carry for long walks.
If you’re just starting out, even a modest pair ($100–$200 AUD) can be surprisingly effective.
I didn’t use binoculars at first. I had a camera.
I assumed that was enough.
But what I didn’t realise was how different the experience is.
Binoculars don’t just show you the bird—they show you its depth.
Two eyes, not one lens.
A three-dimensional sense of space.
You see not just what the bird looks like—but where it is, how it moves, how far it hangs in the air.
It’s not just image quality.
It’s reality, returned to you with more clarity than a photo ever could.
Sketching & Journaling
The most personal tool.
Drawing slows you down. Every sketch teaches you to look better.
Journaling sharpens memory—plumage, posture, behaviour, time.
It turns a passing bird into a moment that stays.
What you need:
Any notebook. A pencil. Nothing fancy. Just attention.
Looking for inspiration? Some of my favourite historical and contemporary artists include-
• Elizabeth Gould (UK, 1804–1841)
Often forgotten beside her husband John Gould, Elizabeth illustrated hundreds of bird species with clarity and grace. Her work combined scientific accuracy with fine detail—she helped visualise species like fairywrens and bowerbirds before photography existed.
• John James Audubon (USA, 1785–1851)
Best known for The Birds of America, Audubon was dramatic, obsessive, and wildly ambitious. His birds often feel like characters mid-performance—sometimes inaccurate, always full of life.
• Melchior d’Hondecoeter (Netherlands, 1636–1695)
A Dutch master of bird painting. He painted elaborate, theatrical compositions of peacocks, swans, and exotic birds in garden landscapes. His work hangs in the Rijksmuseum and still feels full of motion.
• Jan Weenix (Netherlands, 1642–1719)
Known for his detailed still lifes of game birds, rich fabrics, and dark backgrounds. His paintings blend naturalism with stillness and grief—birds not just as subjects, but as symbols.
• Ray Harris-Ching (New Zealand, b. 1939)
A modern painter of birds with intense detail and reverence. His works often feel like portraits—sharp, intimate, sometimes unsettling in their realism.
• Joris De Raedt (Belgium, contemporary)
A contemporary artist working in softness and subtlety. His birds seem to emerge from mist—his use of light and texture captures their gentleness more than their sharpness.
You’re not drawing to be right.
You’re drawing to remember.
Photography
Even a phone camera can be useful in the field.
You’re not aiming for perfect shots—you’re capturing evidence.
A quick photo can help you ID the bird later, especially if it didn’t stay long enough to study.
Why it helps:
• You can zoom in afterward to check key field marks: eye-rings, throat streaking, beak shape, tail structure
• Photos are helpful when submitting sightings to eBird and observation.org.
• Images also help you track subtle differences between similar species over time
Using a dedicated camera (DSLR or mirrorless):
• Telephoto lenses (300mm+) let you capture birds at a distance with much better clarity
• Faster shutter speeds help freeze motion—ideal for birds in flight or active feeders
• Better light control gives you more accurate colours and sharper details, useful for close comparison
Beginner tip:
Try digiscoping—lining your phone camera up with your binoculars or spotting scope.
It takes practice, but even a rough shot can help with later ID. Spotting Scopes & Thermal Scopes
You don’t carry a scope—you set up camp.
Best for open wetlands, lakes, shorelines.
Scopes give you sharp distance: leg colour, beak shape, raptor IDs at 200m.
They’re not cheap ($400–$1,500 AUD+), and they need a tripod.
But they make far birds feel close—and they reward stillness over movement.
Thermal scopes are a different story. Not standard gear.
They read heat, not light—turning birds into soft flickers in the dark.
Useful for roosting owls, shy undergrowth species, and those “I know it’s here” moments.
You won’t get field marks.
But you’ll know exactly where to look.
Audio Recording
You won’t always see the bird.
But you’ll almost always hear it.
Recording birdsong—especially in NSW, where Merlin’s sound database is still growing—is a small act with real impact.
Each clip helps make IDs easier for future birders.
You’re adding to something bigger.
You don’t need a mic. Your phone is enough.
Even a rough recording can capture pitch, pattern, rhythm—useful for separating lookalike species.
Why it matters:
• Some birds are best identified by call
• Audio can confirm presence when visuals aren’t possible
• Contributes to public databases (like eBird + Merlin) for better machine learning and species coverage in Australia
When you record, you’re not just listening.
You’re helping the bird be heard—by others, and by the future.
You’re Already Birding
Finding joy in the presence
A closing note for anyone who’s ever looked up
If you’ve ever paused as a shadow skimmed across your hands—
if you’ve ever turned toward a sound with no shape, only longing—
if you’ve ever whispered “what was that?” and meant who was that, and why was it beautiful
Then yes.
You’ve already begun.
You don’t need to name the bird.
You only need to notice that it was there.
That something flickered at the edge of your seeing,
and for once, you followed it.
Birding isn’t about rarity.
It’s about presence.
The willingness to go still.
To hold your breath.
To let the world reveal itself without needing to explain.
The birds don’t need you to be certain.
They only need you to be there when it happens.
And it will happen.
A wingbeat. A call. A shape just barely in focus.
They’ve been here longer than us.
Their ancestors walked with dinosaurs, sang through the silence after extinctions,
carried seeds across oceans, and rebuilt forests one feather at a time.
You’re not discovering them.
You’re joining them—briefly—on their ancient path through sky and light.
Try to get to it before it’s gone.
