Misplaced Beauty

As May 11, 2013 came to close, in the first minutes of May 12, I was on the winning team of the 30th World Series of Birding.  Our total of 182 species was 8 species more than the next team, and 19 more than the one after that.  Our week of long days of diligent, dedicated scouting had paid off in finding birds on a rainy day with no migration to speak of in a year when migration in general appeared to be late.  Whether it was due to the effects of superstorm Sandy or climate change was unclear, but in the end, though a meager total, 182 proved to be a respectable number for a tough year.

The happy dance was only virtual, not only because of exhaustion but also because it is unseemly to celebrate in the presence of those who have lost.  Still, the recounting of the day before finally crawling into bed was filled with the satisfaction of thinking that our best efforts had proven to be the best on the day.  That is until we arrived at the breakfast ceremony to accept our award.  We were informed that a team of high school youth had tallied 4 more species than we had, and although the award structure had not previously recognized youth teams among the winners in the level 1 full state competition, the board had decided that since they did indeed have the highest number of species, they were to be awarded the Urner Stone Cup and we would be given the Stone Award for second place.  Needless to say, we were deflated.  We couldn't argue with the numbers or for that matter the logic of the decision.  Alternative outcomes and arguments to counter the decision were whispered among team mates, but in the end there was nothing to be done but graciously accept second place.

Now with some time for reflection, I am a bit embarrassed by the emotional roller coaster I allowed my ego to take me on.  After nearly two decades of participating in this event, I should realize the truth of my own words that competitive birding is an oxymoron.  The sublime beauty of observing wild birds goes right out the window on a Big Day and it is all competition and no longer birding.  It is no fun losing, and coming in second after believing you were first is exactly that.  I wish that I could be more excited for the young men that won the competition, but I'm left with the sinking feeling not only that they may continue to be better than any team I'm on, thus keeping my name off the winner's cup, but that somehow our years of effort should have counted for more, that they could wait, but our time had come.  The ego can be pretty ugly at times and try as I might to pretty it up with various justifications, the mirror doesn't lie, this doesn't look good on me.

I am remembering J. Phillip Newell's words on Darkwood Brew about the ego being the servant of the being and that Holy Communion can represent the death of the ego in service of our true selves.  I do want to drink deeply of that cup that truly liberates me to be present in the moment and enjoy it for the great gift that it is.  I know that our team put in nearly the best effort that we could have.  There is no shame in what we accomplished simply because someone else accomplished more.  There was great joy in the competing even without the added bonus of winning.  Indeed, the "war stories" of the day will expand over time to be larger than life and will speak of the glory that was the 30th World Series of Birding, the one that Pete Dunne dared to proclaim the best ever.  In this moment, the moment when I see this Big Day that way seems distant, but in that moment I know that I will smile, knowing that this day (like all days) was a blessing.