Our migration and roosting
What migrational connection reminded me.
A continuous stream of crows flows south across the sky in the intense yellows and oranges of the sun’s fading daylight each dusk. For thirty minutes, intermittent waves of one of San Diego County’s largest crow flock head to what I’m told is a nightly roost at Lake Hodges. Fascinated by the flock's regularity and scale, I did some research. Not so much online but with elder residents (living Google, as I like to call them respectfully). Living Google told me the flock has been observed for decades. The crows adjust their daily southward salmon run as the equinox brings an earlier dusk.
Observing this ritual is a kind of natural metronome each day. I wondered why they fly toward roosting grounds. Why do they enter the stream southward like clockwork? They fly out each day to live, eat, and pester other birds but, for some reason, reassemble nightly at shared roosting grounds. The bird geeks (said with endearment) who track avian behavior surmise the evening rally is to check in and exchange information. But I contend that deep within ourselves, we know why.
Our migration
This reliable stream of crows came to mind as I rode the Sprinter train to Oceanside, where I’m writing this. The Sprinter is part of the North County Transit System that runs commuter trains around southern California. Like before, I entered this communal trip with whoever was on the same schedule as me. From our individual lives, we shared cars and space as we migrated together—some for work, some for play, but all going somewhere westward.
I had deja vu watching people stepping into this migration. Everyone in this disparate band of train travelers has an inner journey to a type of roost we humans need and want. We are all headed somewhere in life, and I contend it’s more similar than a separate destination. Our individual lives feel separate, and technology, politics, and what passes for upward mobility sell isolation as a better, more desired way to travel. But we all want the same things: to flourish, to love and be loved, and to feel we are contributing to something bigger than ourselves. That feels like a shared roost.
Migrating together has its upside
I get why public transit is less desirable. If you could never, I get it. This flock, I count myself as a member, can make enjoying it difficult. The train is slower, which isn’t the same as inefficient. A rider surrenders their freedom and has to share space with unchosen others. But something happens as we join the stream of shared travel, probably a few things.
On the train, I’m physically reminded that I’m no better than any other rider. Over the intercom, I’m asked to respect riders who need a seat, and taking up only the required space becomes unspoken respect for one another. Thank yous and nods are exchanged as bikes are situated or seats are requested with a quizzical look and pointer finger.
A successful life in most American cities means never traveling on public transit. Therefore, cars jam interstates going the same way the trains are going. Success means living insulated from every interaction with unchosen others. The desired life is living in a gated community or far enough away that a gate isn’t needed. If not that, we want a life isolated from undesired human contact through layers of technology. Most of us are successful enough to arrive at these conditions—or something that passes for them.
But the glaring issue for me is the results. It turns out that part of the cost of our independence and insulated experience might be paid with our souls.
The results
In an article titled: New Surgeon General Advisory Raises Alarm about the Devastating Impact of the Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation in the United States we’re told
“…calling attention to the public health crisis of loneliness, isolation, and lack of connection in our country. Even before the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, approximately half of U.S. adults reported experiencing measurable levels of loneliness. Disconnection fundamentally affects our mental, physical, and societal health. In fact, loneliness and isolation increase the risk for individuals to develop mental health challenges in their lives, and lacking connection can increase the risk for premature death to levels comparable to smoking daily.”
From Kasley Killam’s book The Art and Science of Connection:
Today, many people show signs of social health in decline. Over the past thirty years, the percentage of Americans with ten or more close friends dropped by 20 percent.? Over the past twenty years, the amount of time people spent alone increased by an average of twenty-four hours per month.* Over the past ten years, participation in communities, such as book clubs, sports leagues, and neighborhood associations, fell by nearly 20 percent.* And according to a national survey in 2019, around half of adults in the US felt as if no one knew them well.
I can’t help but wonder if it might help us to see that all our inner pursuits are shared—our goals, our roosting grounds, so to speak. Our migration and our roosting are tangible and something to experience in public transit. What if that led us to an overriding desire to see others get where they’re going with relative comfort and their space in the migration honored?
When we look out over a public space filled with people, do we see them as birds of a feather traveling to a shared roost? Things that rob us of that view might not be as desirable as we imagine. A public space can be an access point for empathy and connection. Or a reminder of our need for it.
There is an unacknowledged, often avoided, but very real shared destination for us as humans. We’re all heading where time takes us. Age, loss, and death are on all our horizons. But we all generally want the same things. How can we see our shared travel to these things more clearly? As wealth and success draw us into isolation, we might be paying more of a price than we realize.
What can give you a glimpse of our shared migration with all beings everywhere? Consider how we might shed isolated and tribal pursuits for more shared migrations to our hopeful roosting.
Be well friends.