Naomi Weisman is a Canadian-Australian and mother of three who loves to Ramble with her dog, cook for family and friends, and laugh whenever possible.
I consider myself an amateur birdwatcher.
A long time ago, on my very first big trip with my ex-husband, we went to Belize. Neither of us had ever even heard of that country. We felt like frontier explorers, setting off into the unknown.
One of the excursions we signed up for was a visit to the Mayan ruins at the northern tip of the country, in the Yucatán Peninsula. Getting there wasn’t simple—we had to travel by boat along a winding river, the kind that feels alive with secrets.
As it happened, there were a few American birdwatchers on the trip. Serious ones. They were fully outfitted: tear-away pants, wide-brimmed sun hats, binoculars hanging at the ready, notebooks and pens in hand, well-thumbed bird guides tucked under their arms, sturdy hiking boots. They looked like they knew exactly what they were doing.
And then, as we drifted along the river, it happened.
The most beautiful bird flew right past my head—so close it almost brushed me. It was a flash of colour and movement, the kind of moment that makes you catch your breath.
I turned to one of the birdwatching women and asked, “Do you know what that was?”
Without missing a beat, she handed me her guidebook and calmly replied, “Look on page 352.”
Page 352.
And there it was. The exact bird. As if it had leapt off the page and into my life just seconds earlier.
I was equal parts impressed and amused. That woman became, from that moment on, the gold standard by which I measure all birdwatchers.
I, on the other hand, am decidedly more… casual.
I Ramble—a lot. I Ramble locally, with my dog, and with other Sole Sisters. I Ramble further afield too, in faraway places that stretch my sense of home and possibility.
And in all of these places, one common thread prevails: wildlife.
There is something deeply grounding about noticing it.
Birdwatching, even at an amateur level, has quietly woven itself into my Rambles. It’s not something I set out to “do” in a structured way. I don’t carry a guidebook or keep a life list. But I notice. I look up. I listen.
And that, I’ve come to realize, is where the magic lives.
Because birdwatching isn’t really about the birds—at least not entirely.
It’s about presence.
When you start paying attention to birds, you naturally slow down. You become more aware of your surroundings. You listen more closely—to the rustle of leaves, the rhythm of wings, the subtle differences in birdsong. Your mind, so often busy and scattered, has somewhere gentle to land.
There’s a calm that comes with it. A kind of quiet focus that feels a lot like meditation, only you’re moving through it, step by step.
It also brings a sense of wonder that’s easy to lose as we get older. Spotting a flash of bright feathers or watching a hawk glide effortlessly overhead can make you feel like a kid again—curious, delighted, a little bit in awe.
And then there’s the connection.
Birds are everywhere. In cities, on trails, by the water, in your own backyard. Noticing them creates a thread that ties all these places together. No matter where I am in the world—whether I’m walking familiar paths at home or exploring somewhere new—there’s a comfort in that continuity.
A shared language of wings and song.
I may never be the woman who can direct you to page 352 without hesitation. But I don’t think I need to be.
For me, being an amateur birdwatcher is enough. It’s about the joy of the unexpected sighting, the pause in the middle of a walk, the quiet thrill of recognizing something—anything—familiar or unfamiliar.
It’s about looking up.
And in doing so, seeing a little more of the world than I might have otherwise.
READ MORE > Her Story, Rambler Cafe Blog
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