by Darryl Jones
The first shock came when we searched for the location of the author of this scale. Helen Perkins, we discovered, worked at our own university, though at a different campus. Instead of the prolonged and fraught negotiations we feared, a few days later Renee and I were chatting over coffee at Griffith University’s Gold Coast campus, less than an hour’s drive away. It was immediately apparent that this was going to be a mutually beneficial collaboration. Helen had developed her scale for use in ecotourism but was convinced that it had much wider validity across a broad spectrum of scenarios, anywhere that led to feelings of “awe and wonderment,” as she explained. A brief outline of what Renee had already discovered about the bird-feeding experience was all Helen needed. “Let’s do this,” Helen declared dramatically. “Oh, and the name,” she added. “Unfortunate, I know, but quite accurate. The original title was the ‘Environmental Ethics Scale,’ but that sounded too generic. Like it or not, the scale captures the strong emotions sometimes associated with really special experiences. It sounds like this is happening with at least some of your feeders. We will soon find out.”
The arduous process of developing her scale involved Helen progressively testing the reactions of different groups of people to a series of statements. Participants indicated the strength of their agreement or otherwise by ticking one of 7 boxes between 1 (strongly disagree) and 7 (strongly agree). From an initial 100 statements, careful statistical evalu-ations of consistency eventually left a list of just 15 statements. These were then included in Renee’s online survey described earlier. After all that preparation, the analysis was, after the usual checking for errors, fairly straightforward. And brutally sharp, the deep and passionate expression of care and concern feeders have for the birds they feed, reduced to a single number.
But a single number means nothing by itself. Its significance can only be assessed in comparison to other groups who have also responded to the same statements. Unfortunately, the fact that the Love and Care for Nature Scale was so recent meant that only a few studies have employed it; but these will have to do. First, three separate studies of different student cohorts undertaking university studies in business yielded the following scores:
Undergraduates 4.31
Master’s candidates 4.94
International students 4.82
Given that the maximum score possible was 7, and that 3.5 would be utterly neutral, and that the respondents involved were relatively well educated but certainly not particularly pro-environment, we can probably regard these scores as fairly indicative of the upper socioeconomic end of the general community. As a contrast, Helen assessed a large group of people engaged in high-end ecotourism activities. These people had paid considerable amounts in order to travel to distant locations specifically to observe and interact with nature and wildlife. These folks would be expected to have a higher score on Helen’s scale, and they did:
Ecotourists 5.36
Now we can validly compare our feeders. They seem to care; let’s see how they scored:
Australian feeders 5.90
British feeders 5.80
This was, I have to say, very big news! While the results from all the preceding studies paint a picture of feeders being strongly motivated by a combination of compassion and pleasure, along with feelings of connection and a willingness to learn, the extraordinarily high scores from both countries on the Love and Care for Nature Scale point directly to something powerfully emotional.
Feeding the Connection
The final study appeared just as I was completing the very last sections of this book. I had been in contact with the researchers, Daniel Cox and Kevin Gaston from the University of Exeter in Cornwall, and had an in-kling that they were working on something highly relevant. I was right. Their research adds substantially to our understanding of the significance of feeding to people engaged in it.
The context for their study was the important benefits that people can potentially obtain from some level of interaction or connection with nature (discussed further in the final chapter). While these have been associated with all sorts of fairly passive activities—viewing natural landscapes, walking in parkland, listening to natural sounds—Cox and Gaston proposed that maintaining a bird feeder may be something much more immediate and direct—and therefore possibly more effective in enhancing feelings of well-being.18 They wanted to see whether the commitment associated with having a feeder led to feelings of well-being and whether a higher level of engagement (feeding more often) had correspondingly greater results. These questions were investigated among the general public—not just people who fed birds—in three English towns: Milton Keynes, Luton, and Bedford. And unexpectedly in this age of online surveys and research by virtual role play, perhaps in keeping with the theme of direct connections, the researchers reverted to the oldest social-science research approach in the book: knocking on doors and chatting with people face to face. Amazing.
In the end, they had data from 331 real but randomly selected people, of whom 83% fed birds (recall the figures presented in Chapter 1; even Cowie and Hinsley19 would be impressed!). To cut to the chase, people who actively engaged with feeding reported feeling more relaxed and connected to nature as a direct result of this activity. Moreover, these perceptions increased with the level of feeding undertaken, and especially when the birds were actually observed at the feeder. Although they make the obvious point that they were not investigating how the apparent relationship between feeding and feelings might come about, the researchers argue that if people are willing to report this connection, something is clearly going on. This is a great starting point for a future physiological investigation. Meanwhile, the humble bird feeder has acquired a new status: “A bird feeder has the potential to be a powerful tool for people to make this connection [with nature] because it provides a focal location where people can expect to observe birds.”20
This commonplace, homely, possibly even quaint pastime is, it seems, also a deeply felt experience. The caring element associated with feeding seems to be much more than just a transitory whim; you can’t simply manufacture this depth of emotional attachment. That is not to say, however, that feeders are simply sentimental suckers, manipulated by clever birdseed marketers (as well as by the birds themselves). It would be rather naive to think that such influences are not a major element in the tremen-dous success of the bird-feeding industry. But I am starting to think that it is probably the other way round: the industry works so well precisely because people already care so much. Even the most sophisticated marketing campaigns fail if there is no emotional engagement. “We only care about what we love.”
Previously I described an early perception of mine of feeding being something akin to the passive watching of television. In view of the complex, powerful, emotional, important, even profound insights gleaned from the research discussed in this chapter, it is clear that such attitudes— not at all uncommon—were based on my own extremely inadequate understanding. I was wrong. This is not just a way to pass the time: bird feeding really matters!
9
BIRD FEEDING MATTERS EVEN MORE NOW
The Promise and Risks of a Global Phenomenon
The birds at my table are very impatient. I am just back from yet another trip and there has been no food on the feeder for an entire week. That was deliberate. It was a difficult decision to make, but in the end, I decided not to arrange for anything to be provided while I was away. Yes, I know (I can feel the e-mails and tweets building up already), I broke the feeder’s Golden Rule: Once you start, don’t stop. And I did so intentionally, perhaps even defiantly. Was this blatant cruelty, willful neglect, or straight-out stupidity? Don’t I care about “my” birds after all? After I upend the cup of wild bird mix and retreat inside to watch the lorikeets jostle and grumble as I sip my coffee, I reflect on the unforeseen dangers of acquiring knowledge. Sometimes the things we learn can lead us to reconsider our ideas and maybe even our actions.
This has been a long and fascinati
ng journey, metaphorically, emotionally, and physically, including a lot of air miles. Along the way I have been challenged, astonished, appalled, and uplifted by what I have seen and heard. As is so often the case, when I started I thought I didn’t know much about the topic; now I know that to be true. Even though I have gathered together enough material to fill a sizeable book, I am even more acutely aware of how much we don’t know about the feeding of wild birds. There may be hundreds of books describing how and what and where to feed in many countries, but the amount of genuine scientific research investigating what this means, for people, ecosystems, landscapes and the birds themselves, is shockingly inadequate. We have barely scratched the surface of the many vital questions that need to be answered. I think that this is changing, and I hope this book pushes things along. You see, I think that there is a lot at stake here.
What we do know may be from only a few locations around the world and may be fairly limited in scope, but many of these ideas and principles can probably be applied to gardens and feeders everywhere. Let me illustrate. Take my feeder in subtropical Australia, right now a scene of intense consumption of sunflower seeds and white millet. Wait, there appear to be some other items on the feeding platform that I did not provide: in my absence, it looks like quite a lot of tiny seed capsules from the eucalyptus trees above have collected on the feeding platform. I vaguely noticed them when I put out the seed just now, but they didn’t trigger an acute “hygiene alert,” so I took no further notice. But the lorikeets certainly have, and are now concentrating on these capsules, deftly splitting them with their wickedly sharp beaks to get at the minute seeds within. There is a distinct irony in this scene: these wild visitors, who came looking for birdseed, have ignored the commercial stuff (which I paid good money for) in favor of the natural bounty they have unexpectedly discovered. Natural food in an unnatural setting.
This rather unsettling observation event may help me explain my simple though significant decision to withhold provisioning while I was away. Among the vast amount of detail I have carefully considered in constructing the contents of this book, I have kept particular note of things that relate to my own practice and ideas as a feeder. I hope that you have too. For example, the exploration of the various reasons that people have for feeding got me thinking about my personal motivations. I would say that the wonder and pleasure of seeing truly wild birds up close is paramount for me, though as a professional ecologist interested in behavior, I am also fascinated in their interactions. But I am willing to admit, nonetheless, that an emotional element is also strong: I would score (do score, actually; Renee tested me) pretty highly on the Love and Care Scale (just don’t tell my wildlife colleagues). So, yes, I do care; I care greatly about the well-being of the individual lorikeets that visit my feeder (and I have also started to care deeply about their cousins elsewhere currently consuming far too much meat). But caring also means that I want the best environmental and ecological circumstances for these birds to live full and productive lives. For this species, in this landscape, the provisioning of a little seed is probably of very little consequence. I know that there is a huge amount of natural food available for lorikeets (and many other species) throughout the local landscape and that it is readily available for most of the year. By limiting the amount of food I provide, I hope I am encouraging these birds to continue to live and feed as naturally as possible.
That is now. Things can change suddenly, however. In recent years, our region has endured several spectacular storms that stripped the trees of their flowers and fruit at the peak of the breeding season. Everyone reported more birds than normal at their feeders and birdbaths over the following weeks. A decade ago, we experienced a sustained and brutal drought that led to the death of many plants and withered the foliage of even ancient trees, greatly reducing the availability of natural food and standing water over a huge area. Birdbaths, not that common in this normally wet region, became all the rage, with influxes of species from hard-hit areas turning up in places they had rarely been seen before. Caring also means being ready to respond when needed.
Is Caring Helping?
Some questions:
What if there isn’t a lack of natural food?
Are birds really reliant on well-provisioned feeders?
Does feeding actually help birds, other than during difficult times?
What if feeding is assisting species we don’t want or is hindering those in trouble?
In fact, should we actually be feeding at all?
That’s being provocative, obviously, but consider your reaction to these questions for a moment. Are you shocked or disappointed that anyone could seriously suggest that feeding wilds could be anything but positive? Have I just been maliciously leading you along this path only to spring a trap and suddenly announce that feeding is fundamentally bad? If you have been following the story to this point I hope that you will expect that such a pronouncement is unlikely. It should be quite clear, however, that there are some serious issues to be faced and that every individual person engaged in feeding should be willing to consider where they stand.
I pose those particular questions because at present we simply don’t know or there is no sensible answer. These are, however, the kinds of question that are almost never asked yet underlie much of the success of the bird food industry. We are surrounded by messages that proclaim that we need to feed birds because they need our help, or because we need to make up for lost natural resources, or even that the commercial products are better than what is available in the apparently depauperate landscape. Or the message may be simply that supplying birds with a little something is just a nice way to see these gorgeous creatures. We respond with our purchases because we care and this seems like the best way to help. And we continue to do so because it is so rewarding: the birds really do come. It’s almost as though they come as a way of acknowledging our efforts and are showing their gratitude. It’s a simple equation and appears to be clearly a win-win transaction, at least in terms of the suppliers of the products and the people buying the stuff. We care, they offer, we buy, they prosper, we feel great. The wheels of a gigantic industry roll on, profits continuing to grow annually.
I can be a little caustic about this, safe in the knowledge that the bird food industry is here to stay, for all the obvious reasons. This is perhaps the perfect business model, with consumers utterly convinced about the value of the products, compelled to buy as a way of doing good, and propelled by a powerful emotional engagement in the process. We buy because we care, leaving the companies free to dream up next season’s must-have Organic Portuguese Raisin-Flavored Chickadee Supreme with added Vitamin H and a hint of MiracleMineral. Or something like that.
But have you noticed anything missing from all of this? Yes, the birds. The industry can do what it likes (and it does), but in the end what we, as feeders, must be entirely focused on are the birds and what all this supplementary food means for them. Let’s ask a much simpler question:
Does my feeding help the birds that visit?
This is deceptively simple, of course. While we are all likely to respond immediately and adamantly yes, just how can we be so sure? How can we ever really know whether even our most sincere and committed (not to say expensive) efforts, motivated by pure care and concern, are actually doing any good? Apart from some extremely specific studies on survival rates reviewed here or elsewhere, and despite the scale of this practice, there is virtually no information that can confirm that our caring actions are actually helping in any real way.
Thankfully, there is plenty that we do know. There is a large body of research on many important and relevant issues, as summarized in this book. While there are many things we will just have to accept as unknowns, especially in the urban and rural landscapes where the bulk of feeding occurs, there is much that is useful and instructive.
What Do We Know about Feeding?
As we approach the conclusion to this exploration, I have attempted to extract some key point
s from the considerable amount of material we have discussed so far. These points are presented as what I regard to be factual statements that emerge from all the studies and discussions I have presented. Some are simple statements of reality, others are more provocative. My aim is to try and take us from our natural focus on our feeders out there in the garden to their role in a much broader landscape.
1.The amount of food we offer to wild birds, and the amount consumed by them, is astronomical.
The figures are all there (see Chapter 1), and frankly, they are hard to believe. The image I keep coming back to is the line of 22,000 railway car-riages full of the seed supplied to birds in the United States every year!1 And although it is all eaten (though not always by the intended critters), every single seed is supplementary to the diet of the birds. In other words, additional, subsidized, possibly not necessary; most of the time the birds don't actually need any of it. In the case of North America—or Australia or South Africa or perhaps most other places where people feed birds— there is absolutely no compelling case that natural food supplies are seriously lacking. Feeding to replace lost resources is much more plausible in parts of the world where feeding has a genuine conservation connotation. Certainly, for the more developed areas of Western Europe (Denmark, the Netherlands, southern England, and Germany, for example) gardens play a vital role as habitat for many hard-pressed species, with feeders an important component. In such places, feeders in gardens may very well be keeping some species or populations alive.2