Listen with my eyes. See with my ears.

Letting Presence Guide Perception

I’ve never been very good at spotting wildlife on command. You know that moment—someone gasps, points quickly, “Look! A deer! Over there!” I’d freeze in the pressure, heart racing, eyes scanning too fast, and by the time my brain caught up, the moment was gone. I’d feel like I failed the assignment. Like I couldn’t see fast enough.

But something changed when I started listening and looking for the birds.

The game of hearing the beautiful calls of the cardinal and learning to match each sound with a scarlet flicker tucked in the trees somewhere, coyly letting me know they were near. The scapegoated Jays, of course, are taken for granted despite their jaw-dropping-blues. And the mourning doves, part of my crew, quietly arrive like old friends who shyly hang out, whispering their sweet stories.

And the loon. I could never leave out the loon.

That crisp, intricate pattern across its back, almost ceremonial.

The eyes, lit with something ancient. Not fire like passion, but fire like the depth of the void. Elemental. Eternal.

The call of the loon is something else entirely. It doesn’t just touch my heart, it strikes a tuning fork in my being.

A sound that chills in the best possible way. It’s deep. It’s poignant. It almost hurts.

No matter how many times I hear it, the moment it ends, I yearn for it just as much as I did the first time.

That call from a distance, unmistakable, it’s a portal. A homecoming.

And then the heron. My favourite. Basically silent.

Large and not always easy to spot. A master of stealth.

If it senses you're going to disrupt its fishing, it’s gone.

If you join with quiet respect, it will allow you to watch for free.

Like a small invitation to the sacred. A moment of connection. Stillness recognizing stillness.

Each bird, in its own way, carries a message. A frequency that tunes me back into life itself.

Their songs calibrate something in my nervous system. They sing when it’s safe. And their silence sometimes tells you all you need to know. Their presence feels like code.

My phrase listen with my eyes, see with my ears became more than a quirk of language. It became a practice. A sensory re-wiring. My ears became receivers for my gaze, and my eyes started picking up sound as if they had antennae of their own. My whole head turned into an instrument of sensing.

And when I tuned in just right, when I stilled my body enough to receive, I could feel it.

The cardinal calling me closer. Like she had something to say. A knowing. A presence. A little cosmic ping letting me pretend she was saying I see you too.

I could be at a backyard party, mid-conversation, and a birdsong will pull me back to the present. As I dissociate from the opinions, gossip, and surface talk, I remember to slip back into the deeper hum of the natural world. The birds bring me back. They remind me: Be here. Be now.

What is it about birds? Maybe it’s that they’re ancient.

This creature we often overlook, as if something so ever-present couldn’t also be sacred.

Comparing pigeons to rats, shaking our fists at the noisy jays, even dismissing the crows (all of whom I love).

Their presence has always been a kind of code. They sing when it’s safe. And their silence can tell you everything.

They taught me stillness.

Attunement.

And the sweet wild dopamine of spotting that scarlet flicker after following the sound… it feels so pure. So real. Like a tiny miracle. As if I’ve been chosen to receive a secret message meant only for today.

There’s something beautifully cyclical in the exchange—

They call. I still.
I tune in. They stay.
The quiet deepens.
The presence becomes shared.

Letting presence guide perception.

Listen with my eyes. See with my ears

 #birdmedicine #stillnesspractice #nervoussystemhealing #cardinalwhisper #heronmagic #looncall #everydaymagic #natureattunement #listenwithyoureyes #personalessay