A Universe of Possibilities
The space between what is and what could be.
The sun barely skims the forest with its rays parallel to the ground as Kenneth and Jefferson arrive at the observation platform. The morning warmth evaporates the moisture in the rainforest, enfolding the trees in a veil of clouds. The guys bring their lunch and a flask with coffee: they plan to stay there until the sun's rays skim the forest again, this time from the west. They also bring several binoculars, monoculars, counters and cameras equipped with telephoto lenses. They each place their chairs in a corner of the platform and, perched on them, begin their wait.
The air of Sarapiqui in Costa Rica is dense and humid. From the platform, which rises several meters over a hill, you can see below the Caribbean coast, the extensive tropical jungle, and the pastures and pineapple fields that press against it, insistent. But the platform is there to see upwards instead, towards the sky. Each year, during the northern autumn, millions of raptors migrate from North America southward along the Mesoamerican Corridor—the most important raptor migration route on the continent. The Lapa Verde refuge in Sarapiqui, part of a network of observatories recording the migration from Canada to Colombia, is one of the two observation points to experience this event in Costa Rica. Jefferson and Kenneth have been spending several years here as volunteers, looking at the sky, waiting for the birds that they will count, identify and record as they approach.
The first known written record of this event in the Mesoamerican region was made by the Spanish colonial historian and naturalist Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, who described flights in the Darién in Panama, as early as the 16th century. Surely, the relationship between the native peoples and the migratory cycles of birds goes back much further in time. In a 1938 record, it is mentioned that birds of prey are collectively known in the area as azacuanes, since "in popular superstition, they are supposed to usher in the dry and wet seasons"(1). Azacuán comes from the Nahuatl term 'Atzacua' which is related to 'carrying water' and, indeed, raptor migrations in the Mesoamerican region coincide with the beginning of the dry and rainy seasons. More than a 'superstition', the word indicates a sustained attention over time to the cycles of the weather and the birds, cycles that for centuries have been intimately intertwined and that allowed those who paid that attention to know what to expect after the passing of the birds.
Jefferson rises from his chair and excitedly announces that "here they come". To the eye that doesn't know what to look for, the sky looks like an endless white canvas, but with a little effort, Jefferson manages to make us see the tiny black dots on the horizon, barely discernible. He sets up his binoculars and his manual counter, and starts chanting numbers and names that Kenneth jots down as fast as he can. They identify the species from their silhouettes, with which they are already familiar. The hieroglyphs in the sky translate into red-headed vultures, peregrine falcons, broad-winged hawks. They hurry to count them while the birds move in a straight line before surrendering to the thermals.
Once in the thermals—columns of air raised by evaporation—the birds accumulate and blend together forming a spiral and rising without any effort on their part. Surrendered to the currents, the raptors offer a mesmerizing dance. The swirling air gently sways the birds as they spread their broad wings to glide in meditative circles up to where the air cools again and gravity takes over once more. From there the birds dive in a free fall to the next thermal, releasing those of us who contemplate them from the trance.
This mechanism allows raptors to move across thousands of kilometers—some as far from Canada to Patagonia—like sailboats propelled by the wind, without using their own energy. It is a migration that depends absolutely on air currents and the heat that lifts them, and on the geography that provides the conditions for these atmospheric dynamics. Seen in this way, it is difficult not to recognize the agency of the landscape in the massive movement of birds: a territory that cools in the north triggers the migration, and warm territories in the south raise their thermals drawing the route that attracts the birds, so that the forest can feel them unfold over itself, in dances that fill the sky, even if only for a short period of time. In exchange for their dance, these same territories will provide the birds with roosting spaces for the nights of their journey and a refuge where they can survive until the north thaws.
In his essay about the cycles of animal migrations and the lingering questions about the mechanisms of orientation in those long journeys, philosopher and ecologist David Abram proposes that perhaps the great collective migrations are active expressions of the Earth herself, that perhaps they are "...slow gestures of a living geology, improvisational experiments that gradually stabilized into habits now necessary to the ongoing metabolism of the sphere."(2) Abram compares cyclical migrations to breathing: an inhaling and exhaling of the planet that keeps creatures in circulation. In Spanish, the word for yearning (anhelar) is also related to breathing. It comes from the Latin anhelãre which means to breathe with difficulty, to have a labored breathing or to exhale vapors. It is speculated that because of the sense of respiratory intensity or difficulty experienced when making an effort, the word came to mean "the very effort or lively desire for something".(3) Let us entertain this image for a second: if the planet inhales and exhales moving the birds from one place to another, perhaps there where they are absent, the territory yearns for them, breathing wearily, exhaling vapors of air that rise, in an effort to attract the birds back to itself.
Now, the truth is that no matter how much effort the landscape makes, not everything depends on it. The territory seduces, but the birds must also allow themselves to be seduced. That is to say, migration depends both on the conditions of the landscape and on the birds' confidence and surrender to let themselves be guided by these atmospheric forces. And, even when guided by the winds, the birds of prey must remember and orient themselves geographically, responding—as Abram states—to "allurements and gestures in the topographical manifold"(2), in order to return to the same territory that has awaited them every year for centuries.
Jefferson and Kenneth tell us that raptors are capable of remembering geographic features, that it is believed that the young learn the route from their elders, and that their sharp vision allows them to discern the landscape and its creatures with great accuracy. From the bird's eye view afforded by the platform, an opening in the forest resembles a vigilant eye. Perhaps the jungle is looking back, perhaps the forest also knows how to recognize the silhouettes of birds. Perhaps that is why it draws them everywhere and sighs in the form of thermals, longing for the cycle of their return to be fulfilled.
Animal migrations, like any other cycle, anchor us in time. Living in a cyclical world gives us a sense of familiarity and security in a changing context. We trust that the sun will rise, that the seasons will come and go, that the nights will lengthen until the sun returns unconquered; that the birds, the turtles, the whales, the winds and the rains will come again. Cycles put us on hold for the world. Each event that is completed brings us the relief and joy of a hope fulfilled.
For many centuries, cultures all over the world have celebrated ceremonies and festivals honoring natural cycles, giving thanks for their arrival or making offerings for their return. In these celebrations there is an understanding that the wait is not passive nor the satisfaction immediate, that a particular attention and participation, an effort, or let's rather say, a longing on our part.
But, what happens when cycles are broken? What happens when the world with which we had become familiar loses its continuity?
This is the reality we are facing in the context of the ecological crisis. In the specific case of raptors, the effects of climate change directly affect their migration by disrupting rainfall and drought cycles. Alterations in wind patterns and atmospheric conditions could reduce the viability of traditional migratory routes, and the increased frequency and severity of cyclones, hurricanes and storms expose birds to dangerous weather events that reduce their chances of survival during the journey. (5).
When cycles are broken, we are faced with the challenge of learning to live in an unpredictable world. A world in which the relationships and associations that oriented us in time are no longer guaranteed. The dictionary tells us that one of the definitions of expecting, is to have the hope of getting what one desires. But what is the frame of reference of what is expectable in a world without the balance of cycles? How can we know what it is possible to desire in such a context?
Before an uncertain and unbalanced world, consumerism has not hesitated to fill the gaps of our expectations. Where we once awaited the passing of rains and azacuanes, we now await the new phone upgrade, the new summer collection, the new car model. Our desire for a sense of familiarity and security has been hijacked by manufactured cycles that are not associated with anything, that do not anchor us to anything, that do not tell us anything about the landscapes in which we live, and that are happening with increasing frequency and immediacy. We no longer wait, we become desperate.
Perhaps then, there is something important in the act of waiting. In putting ourselves on hold for the world. In exposing ourselves to the possibility—or not—of a cycle being fulfilled and witnessing a changing world. Perhaps this is the wisdom that emerges from the ceremonies that mark and honor cycles: that we can never take them for granted, that the beauty and abundance of cycles is a gift, and that cultivating a desire, a waiting, for what the world so generously offers us over and over and over and over and over again, is one of the simplest ways to appreciate and care for the relationships and conditions that make it possible for that desire to be fulfilled each and every time.
Jefferson and Kenneth are only in their twenties. They were born, like many of us, into an unpredictable world and into societies that lack ceremonies that put us in reciprocity with our ecosystems. But each year they offer their time to come and expect what is still expectable, to be part of a kind of ceremony that honors the birds with their attention, and that, through a collective and international effort to better understand the routes, needs and populations of the birds, demonstrate, like the rainforest, their yearning to witness and participate in one more cycle.
The observation days have been quiet. Other than a few flocks in the morning, there has been no major raptor activity. However, during the long hours of waiting, Jefferson and Kenneth have identified another bunch of local birds roosting in the trees around the platform, getting excited about each and every one of them. They have spent the entire day exchanging anecdotes about past sightings, expressing wishes of what they would like to see someday, or helping us elucidate which birds it is that we are seeing in our backyard on a daily basis. The hours of waiting and observing on the platform have given them a direct experience of the forest. The jungle has taught them things. They have learned to recognize birds by their songs and to predict which birds or other species might be seen depending on the conditions of the day. They know in which trees they can expect to see certain birds perching and they can make educated guesses about the passage of raptors. All from sustained attention over time.
In ancient Rome, specialized priests, called augurs, would choose certain points to observe the flight of birds, from which they would interpret the future or the will of the gods. From this practice we got the words auspicium, from avis or auis (bird) and spicio (to see, to observe); and contemplatio, from con- (all, together) and templum (temple or sacred place to see the sky). The Romans did nothing without an augury, without that message from the birds indicating that they had the favor and protection of the gods (6).
Who knows if the gods send their messages with the birds. Could be. It could also be that there is something wise in not rushing, in renouncing immediacy. Taking the time to observe the world, to wait for it, to yearn for it, before rushing into any action that might interrupt its cycles. Commenting on the work of poet and revolutionary Mario Payeras—who wrote about the isthmic routes of the Peregrine Falcon—anthropologist Jonatan Rodas comes to a similar conclusion. "In short,—he says—the lesson seems to be this: that to transform the world we must understand it, and to understand it, we must first contemplate it."(7)
Arriving at the platform in the afternoon, the wind makes the leaves tremble from one moment to the next. The whole forest sways, announcing the rain, and it is not long before the sky breaks into storm. Our plans change and so do the birds'. Wet feathers are too heavy to glide and there will be no thermals anyway until the falling water evaporates with the morning heat. The platform is too vulnerable a spot in the lightning storm. We turn back down the trail as quickly as possible under a torrential downpour. The observation will have to wait.
The next morning, the humidity from the previous day's rain slowly rises. The raptors arrive slowly, surrendering to the thermals. The numbers are not predicted to be large today either. At the end of the season it is expected that almost three million raptors will have crossed the Costa Rican sky. There will be days when the sky will be covered with birds in a massive spectacle, but the truth is that most days will be like these, in which the birds are passing in small flocks. Sometimes what is awaited does not come in an abundant and obvious way. Sometimes it takes time and perseverance to recognize that what we so longed for has been fulfilled.
The sun barely skims the forest with its rays parallel to the ground when Kenneth and Jefferson arrive at the observation platform. They plan to stay there until the sun's rays skim the forest again, this time from the west. They will do so every day for the duration of the raptor migration. The warm territory of Sarapiqui does its part by raising once again its thermals that draw the route that attracts the birds. The sky extends like an endless white canvas. The sight and the senses set on the horizon. Awaiting.
The space between what is and what could be.
A close look into Fire of Love.
A filmmaker's desire to make peace with the place she once called home.
An invitation to let ourselves be deeply affected by life.
