The somewhat tragic mockingbird

Balancing mimicry and originality

We moved. It was a move that took us from central Pennsylvania to San Diego County, California. At the time, I thought I’d be here on Formerly Feral sharing poetic observations. I’d be trying to weave spiritual insights through the sweeping experience of a cross-country move. But here’s the thing: Moving is time-consuming. I’ll say more someday, but for now, I’ll say this: we made it. As is my routine, I beat myself up for not being better at something I hadn’t done in over a decade.

The apartment we are renting is on a steep incline that looks across some mountains to the west, where further on lies the Pacific Ocean. I’m in no need to travel to go birding; the birds have come to us, from the pair of Great Horned Owls low-calling in the palm trees nearby to the pair of red-tailed hawks that rip overhead as dusk moves in. This is the first time I’ve had as many Northern mockingbirds nearby. They are very active and extraordinary songsters.

A mockingbird can mimic dozens of songs and calls. It’s a catalog of all it has heard, even from other mockingbirds. Being a flying cover band takes impressive vocal range. It’s only a quick mimic of the other songs and calls, but it’s still an impressive impersonation.

But I have to wonder, do they have any originals?

They do have a few of their calls and songs. A few bird notes that are unique to mockingbirds. But in a somewhat tragic twist, instead of using all they can do, they’ve reduced their mockingbird calls to a few plain and mostly functional vocalizations. As for a song, they squeeze and stretch vocals to offer the world remixes of things.

And therein lies a tragedy. Here, a bird is capable of singing across many ranges and pitches, and it uses very little of that skill for original expression.

Same mockingbird. Same.

If we aren’t mindful, our lives can be reduced to mostly mimicry. It feels better to be quickly noticed and appreciated. So, we take what’s been done, which is safe, known, and celebrated by others, and imitate it. Our imitation will vie for the approval of folks merely interested in us doing an excellent rendition of what they did first or already know. What adds to the issue is that we can do it with excellence. We can almost pass for them or what they have done. This can feel like we’re great at something. To be fair, we are great, but it’s mostly mimicry with a few tweaks.

We can continue traditions and acts from those who have gone before, but is that what the world needs?

While doing what has been done is a serviceable endeavor, and there is the truth that nothing is thoroughly new under the sun, the diminished life of replicating the known things in the world is cheating the world out of our full breadth of abilities and, frankly, God-given talent.

New Songs are risky

So, why don’t we sing more new songs and originals? The danger is that we expect folks to embrace a new song or see what we’re doing as valuable and needed right away. If not, we might safely run back to the safety of the accepted, known, already-heard song.

Some might say we humans are afraid of death—perhaps not in an actual sense, but an artistic one—either death of career or death by embarrassment. But to limit ourselves to the accepted songs of others is more about being afraid to live. Living comes with a lack of acceptance, a lack of appreciation, and, frankly, failure—none of which are actually dying as much as they are part of living.

So, sing your God-given song, even if no one knows they need it yet.

Be well friends.