In recent years, I’ve grown so used to people asking specifically about Facebook or Instagram that I usually just give that information out and don’t usually think about this website. A question from a friendly couple at our local greenway was a great reminder that while I’ve been putting work into tangential projects on this site (namely “Birding in Blount County” and “Birding for Science”), the rest of this site has suffered from a kind of benign neglect.

I’ve gotten back into writing in general lately, and may start translating some of these musings into proper blog posts in coming weeks. I would like to revisit that old project “Lessons From Birds” that got paused while my grandmother was ill, but for now, here’s a mildly edited version of a rambling Facebook post I made last night.

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Often, the difference between seeing or hearing a bird —- or not —- comes down to dumb luck. A tiny change of angle, presence or absence of ambient noise, simply a quirk of timing, or an accumulation of multiple variables. Birders and naturalists know that for everything that you do see, hear, or otherwise detect, there is always so much more that you don’t.

That’s a rule of nature — absence of evidence is not necessarily evidence of absence. Human endeavors are not excluded from this rule.

Last night at the greenway, the straggler Yellow-crowned Night-Heron reminded me of this as she or he came bounding out of some hiding place just as I approached an overlook. Of course, this was a coincidence – not that the bird had actually been waiting on my arrival to take a visible position. After basking in the bird’s presence for a bit, I continued walking to get enough steps in for the evening so as not to feel like a complete slug. By the time I returned to the area, there was no sign of YCNH friend, from any available angle at the overlook or any other nearby viewpoints. No way of knowing if the bird was lurking in shadow again (I refuse to use lights on nocturnal birds, but have developed decent night vision), had tucked into a hidden area of the trees, or had gone back upstream towards an area invisible from the walking path even in daylight.

Herons in general have a special place in my heart for several reasons, including that I think of them as a symbol of hope in many contexts. (There’s more to it, which may be worth a blog post all its own.) I chuckled and thanked the Night-Heron for the timely reminder that, just like with bird friends, there is always so much more goodness and reason for hope in the world than are ever visible to us in a particular moment.

There’s an important difference between scientific observations and humans’ daily search for meaning. Even in citizen science, you should only record that which you actually observe. But when it comes to hope, we can take a leap of faith and act based on what we do NOT actively observe — clinging to the knowledge that the “good things” we can’t currently perceive will make themselves known, in time, if we will have enough patience and be open to them when they do appear.

• Lessons from Birds