Philip Sugg | Blog

A continuation of the previous post on the hummingbird. In the weeks since it flew away, the question that keeps occurring to me is some version of this: “Why did I see it? Why did this one flight back to the nest catch my eye?” This bird, hardly larger than a flying insect, could have kept sitting there, invisible in its stillness, for weeks. How many other lifecycles have passed unknown while I was looking right at them? This is surely what happens, many times over, for countless other events that are equally worthy. For a busy person, failing to see might as well be identical with seeing itself. I have to admit that my default powers of seeing are ordinary at best: too purpose-driven, insensitive enough to make me efficient. I can do better if I try, but I rarely give myself the chance.

But even the unobservant see things–startling things, even, that can completely change a life. It’s a question that has a long history: why does what is subtle and rare still break through, even with those who are busy, distracted, and chronically unobservant? Sight has never been fair. These reports–of those who were unfairly gifted a vision–are a form of compensation for those of us who miss most things.¹

Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek: it’s one of those unclassifiable books, written by a naturalist with a spiritual appetite that has nowhere to go. She writes about the woods around her home in the Southeast US, near Roanoke, Virginia. I don’t remember why I found it worthy of reading in the early 2000s, in high school. The book came out in 1974, and won the Pulitzer Prize the next year. Maybe I took to it because she wrote from such an ordinary geographic place: neither well-preserved nor particularly wild, at best moderately scenic, not far from where I grew up in North Carolina².

In the tree outside my window in Chicago, the hummingbird nest is now empty. When I last mentioned it at the beginning of August, the mother was still waiting, getting ready. Since then a hatchling emerged from a single egg, lived entirely off its mother’s efforts while it grew for a few weeks, then flew away at the beginning of September.

From materials gathering to her chick’s first flight, a hummingbird’s nesting period takes place over about two months. This nest happened to be positioned at the perfect spot for watching. Everyone in my household saw it.

But is there anything so unusual and extraordinary that you cannot get used to it with regular exposure? Maybe because it became so reliable to find it there, I was surprised at the feeling of finality that overtook me when the fledgling disappeared. I could see that it was getting stronger, looking more like a typical example of its species:

But there is no warning, no turning back when the baby leaves the nest. No one besides us even knew that it was an event. One hour you walk up to the window and see the familiar, the next the show is over. After the fledgling’s first flight, neither mother nor young returns to the nest–or even shows any familiarity with the location. I haven’t seen any hummingbirds at all since those two left. Most nesting birds choose a different spot every year; I doubt we’ll have such a good view again.

near Castle Rock, Wisconsin

If challenge of the being a writer is a subject that interests you, the New York Times had a beautiful story about the novelist Kiran Desai, and the trials of completing her new book–twenty years in the making!–"The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny."

After she won the Booker Prize in 2006 for her second novel, The Inheritance of Loss, Desai arrived at high literary recognition just as she began to disappear into her next book. Alexandra Alter writes of her attempts to make progress:

When she first had the idea for the novel, Desai didn’t realize how thoroughly the story would swallow her life. At times over the years, she feared that she might never finish it.

And:

About seven years into writing, Desai was at a residency in Brussels when she decided to print out the manuscript. She was shocked at what kept spilling out of the printer; she realized she had written 5,000 pages.

What Desai experienced is (almost) the struggle of a lifetime. But the basic problem is one that any writer who has attempted a substantial writing project will have sympathy for–especially one that seems (or is) beyond his or her current powers. After seeing physical proof of her difficulties in the 5000 page manuscript, Alter quotes Desai that she “was horrified,” and “hadn’t understood what a dire situation it was.”

Writing is strange in that way: the writer can drown in her own generative powers. At first I wanted to describe Desai as “unproductive,” but that is not the right description at all. What is the right word for someone who produces, in a mechanical sense, yet has nothing to show for it? Very little of the bottom line in art is subject to being counted. The torture of Desai’s condition is being so talented and prolific, and still finding herself unable to marshal that productivity in service of the work that needs to be written. “The story had no center,” Desai said. The work keeps falling apart until it doesn’t.

A reference somewhere else prompted me to look into the poetry of Edward Thomas, the English writer who only started writing poetry at 36–and was killed in World War I combat by 39. It’s been a delight. Although his short time as a poet resulted in a modest body of work, his output feels larger because each piece holds me a for a while: I have not read very much, or have I read a lot? Thomas is one of those rare poets who manages to build both conceptual expansiveness and incredible specificity of observation into his verse:

The Bridge

I have come a long way today
On a strange bridge alone,
Remembering friends, old friends,
I rest, without smile or moan,
As they remember me without smile or moan.

All are behind, the kind
And the unkind too, no more
Tonight than a dream. The stream
Runs softly yet drowns the Past,
The dark-lit stream has drowned the Future and the Past

No traveller has rest more blest
Than this moment brief between
Two lives, when the Night’s first lights
And shades hide what has never been,
Things goodlier, lovelier, dearer, than will be or have been.

The poem is a rumination on time, on the reality of past and future. The present is never mentioned, but The Bridge could be a theory of the present. The bridge–and the stream beneath it–is a placeholder for that present. The poem works on the reader through the interplay of these temporal categories and the scene: a lone walker, on a bridge, over water. The stream is seen, the stream is: a thing that “runs softly” and is “dark lit.” We are at the end of the day. The audio-visual of the water rushing beneath the traveller’s feet loses its definition, merging with the spread of nighttime darkness. And the specific contents of the traveller’s past and future slide into wish and fantasy, without restriction or guilt (“what has never been/Things goodlier, lovelier, dearer, than will be or have been”)–and with a hint of some delight at their unreality. The anchor of the Present breaks down, the flight of the mind into reinvention–the unreality of time–succeeds.

The desire of the eye
For sky, nothing but sky.
I sicken of the woods
And all the multitudes
Of hedge-trees. They are no more
Than weeds upon this floor
Of the river of air
Leagues deep, leagues wide, where
I am like a fish that lives
In weeds and mud and gives
What’s above him no thought

– From Edward Thomas’ The Sky

Looking south of Roosevelt and west of Clark, at the “78,” one of the largest still-undeveloped tracts of land in Chicago.

My schedule changed today, and I had the chance to wait for the Metra Electric train at a downtown stop I usually pass through: the 11th Street-Museum Campus station. Stations like this have been around so long, are so well-frequented, and are such institutions that they have their own Wikipedia entry. The current name is a bit of an inelegant mouthful: it used to be called the Roosevelt Road Station.

But in the ten or so minutes I had in the early evening, waiting for the train, I came to feel this is one of the more beautiful Metra stations south of the Loop. You get more distance from the city here: close, but not so close that you lose a sense of its stature. The main skyline of the city can be viewed to the to the north of the platform. The imposing residential towers of the South Loop are on one side, and the Museum buildings make up a third.

Above: the sun eclipsed by a building in the South Loop

I do my share of mostly casual endurance sports. Ever since I started running in high school, I have been familiar with the high-profile athletes in this world–especially in long-distance running. Right now one of the foremost athletes of extreme endurance is Kilian Jornet, a Spanish ultrarunner and mountaineer who has been winning some of the hardest distance events in the world for some 15 years.

More recently, however, he has distinguished himself less by his achievements in formal races than by self-designed challenges. Examples include his “Summits of my Life” project, where he attempted and set speed records for high peaks (Mont Blanc, Denali, etc.) on various continents, and his just-announced “States of Elevation” project, in which he will climb 40 or more of the highest peaks in the US spanning from Colorado to Washington state, travelling only by bike between each peak, several thousand miles in total. To add to the demand, he aims to do it all in less than a month.

It’s obviously an exhausting and demanding challenge, that much harder to assess because it’s never been done before. And since Jornet not competing against anyone else, how would one measure this effort? Probably by whether he completes the challenge at all, under the limitations he sets out for himself.

I will follow his progress, and of course be impressed by some of the numbers he puts up: by his pace running on trails at high altitude, by the number of miles run and biked day after day, etc. I can respect the artistry in designing your own event. Extreme distance running has this basic conceptual problem: you could always go further. And for the endurance athlete, the experiences of most events–even the traditional distances and competitions–is mostly that of a competition against oneself: can I be convinced to go a little faster, for a little longer? Jornet’s evolution as an athlete has something of a final frontier quality to it. By deciding not to run a regular race over a repeatable course and distance, it’s as if he’s saying: “I will define what long–really long–means for me.” The athlete not only runs the event, he has the chance to interpret it. Most athletic achievements have a “stands-for-itself” quality. Athletes are famously–maybe necessarily–inarticulate. But not here: Jornet has to tell us why this combination of feats is important. There is also a chance for the spectators of the event to evolve in their understanding as the event happens. Long distance sports are also slow motion sports: we have a chance to change our view of them as they unfold.

A lot of great writing is about being in the right place at the right time. And achieving that is usually not an accident. Some writers are so obviously on another level at finding the right subject, at the right moment in history, and knowing how the specific details relate to some kind of story. Ever since I read Anne Applebaum’s book on the Soviet Gulag system, I have thought that she was one of those writers.

She has a new piece out this week in the Atlantic on latest chapter of war in Sudan: “The Most Nihilistic Conflict on Earth”:

The end of the liberal world order is a phrase that gets thrown around a lot in conference rooms and university lecture halls in places like Washington and Brussels. But in al-Ahamdda, this theoretical idea has become reality. The liberal world order has already ended in Sudan, and there isn’t anything to replace it.

If you want to write well about something, it helps a lot to have firsthand knowledge. Sometimes all the imagination and descriptive powers in the world can’t make up the difference, and this piece is a great example of that. Applebaum recently travelled twice to Sudan this year, in what must be one of the most dangerous places to visit. She describes getting stranded in the desert near the end of her trip, watching a jeep filled with unidentified gun-toting militia approach her small group in the dark. One of them happened to be related to her guide: “In a lawless world,” she writes, “you are perfectly safe as long as your relatives are the ones in charge.”

About a week ago, I took a look outside my bedroom window, aimlessly, and saw a hummingbird. It hovered, then zipped, toward the branches of a nearby tree. For a few seconds I wasn’t sure what I was seeing–if I had even seen a bird at all. Then I saw that the bird was still there, and that it was sitting in a nest it had built on a thin descending tree branch, a few feet from the window.

I’ve been checking on it ever since: looking at it through binoculars, photographing it, watching. If the nest were any closer to the building, I wonder if my presence would bother it. Sometimes I think that the bird sees me, is staring back trying to figure out what I am. Mostly–uncharacteristically, for a bird that is always on the move–it sits.

As I watch this creature stay still, waiting for something to happen¹, I keep coming back to life and the acceptance of risk. The wind blows, the tree bends. The branch bounces and sways, tipping the bird and its nest. It could all fall–sometimes these nests do fall–at any time. This bird survives by being fast and nimble in the air, but it has given all of that up. The nest is camouflaged, but it is out in the open. I have seen hawks perch on this tree. Other hummingbirds approach her territory.

The nest could be a small risk, an average risk, compared to the 500 mile migration it will soon undertake, across the Gulf of Mexico.