Peanuts In My Pocket

I celebrated a milestone birthday over the weekend and, true to form, I spent a lot of time thinking. A few thoughts rose to the surface.

The world is full of litter.

The more time I spend outside hiking or birding, the more I notice it. I started picking up trash while disc golfing. I carry a mesh bag and fill it each time I go out. I eventually added tongs to my gear because, frankly, some of it is gross. Now that I’m aware of it, I can’t unsee it. Yesterday, walking through a parking lot on my way to lunch, I picked up every piece of trash I passed. Mostly coffee cups and candy wrappers. I wasn’t equipped for cigarette butts, so I left those behind. Even so, my collection of disposable drink cups was impressive.

I found myself asking: how did it come to this? How did I fail to notice the problem for so long? And when did it become socially acceptable to leave your Starbucks cup sitting on a curb?

Weekends feel different now that I’m officially a senior citizen. I used to live for them. Now I tend to think of them as crowded, noisy, and not worth the effort. I used to hit a park and enjoy it without thinking twice. Now I notice the density of people, the constant movement, the background noise. I feel relief when Monday arrives. The crowds thin out. The volume drops.

Case in point: we visited Descanso Gardens with family on Saturday. Every parking spot was filled. Every path was a two-way stream of people. There were moments of beauty and wonder, but they were punctuated by an endless parade of bodies. I suspect the same visit on a weekday would feel entirely different.

And finally, I received a Bird Buddy video-enabled feeder from my son and his family. It’s a wonderful gift. I set it up and within minutes a Lesser Goldfinch appeared. That small moment of delight was more than enough. Two days later, though, the feeder has gone quiet. My guess is the neighborhood hawk is patrolling. I like the hawk too, but he’s not interested in seed.

I’m not entirely sure how birding became such a central part of my identity. Maybe it was always there, buried under work and obligation. Retirement and improved health gave it space to grow. Maybe getting older simply means noticing more.

I didn’t plan it. I just followed what felt good.

Who knew?