a flying snack

A Flying Snack: Suffering, A Flock, Revival

 Berkeley author Michael Chabon’s touching memoir, Manhood for Amateurs, begins with his declaration that his story started with the birth of his brother when he was five years old, saying: “Before that, I had no one to tell it to.” With no “other,” existence itself is questionable, which is why neglect is so very lethal. I recently heard a remarkable story underscoring this, of writer and conservationist Hannah Bourne-Taylor.

Although we don’t learn much about Bourne-Taylor’s childhood, we know that her family “moved often.” It certainly sounds bereft of attention, like a vacuum of solitary neglect. She describes herself as “bird-obsessed,” and every spring when her favorite birds, the swifts, returned to her area in the UK, she was overjoyed as if returning to life.

Hannah Bourne-Taylor

Suffering

Bourne-Taylor did not even realize how agonizing her daily experience of OCD was. It was certainly the most debilitating case I have ever heard of, and I am no stranger to OCD. Not only was she plagued by the diagnostic, endless bouts of checking and re-checking, but she “en-souled” the objects of her checking – that is, she imbued them with a “soul.” When she rearranged a can of beans that was crookedly misaligned from the other cans, she imagined the can was suffering from being out of sync with the rest of the clan. Her most severely consuming preoccupation was when she and her husband moved into a home in the far reaches of the jungle, which had a lovely swimming pool. The first time she went to take a dip, she became aware of ants falling into the pool. “Making eye contact” with the ants put her profoundly in touch with their emotional experience, and she became obsessed with saving them from their terrifying drowning deaths. She did not want the luxury of her swim to be at the cost of their fragile lives. Not only did she build bridges of palm fronds to enable their safe rescue, but she got up repeatedly during the night to make sure they were OK. The ants occupied virtually all of her waking life. And it was a secret and solitary world. She did not even tell her husband, who was to be the first person she ever told of her OCD, until she was 31.    

       Although we don’t learn much about Bourne-Taylor’s childhood, we know that her family “moved often.” It certainly sounds bereft of attention, like a vacuum of solitary neglect. She describes herself as “bird-obsessed,” and every spring when her favorite birds, the swifts, returned to her area in the UK, she was overjoyed as if returning to life. As the wife of a devoted bird lover with a history of extreme neglect, it is not hard for me to imagine her primary relationships being aviary. 

     When Bourne-Taylor was in her early thirties, her husband (ironically named Robin!) got a job assignment in the far reaches of Ghana. They relocated, and it was then that she seemed to decline deeply, sinking into her most paralyzing depression. That is when the preoccupation with the suffering ants descended on her, consuming most of 24 hours a day. Until she met the finch.

Of course, it is my rallying cry that attachment, or lack thereof, is the source of both the most profound of injury and most profound healing. And although I have known many a survivor of trauma and/or neglect whose first perhaps only safe attachment was their own child, and plenty also whose preferred attachments are to animals rather than humans, I have never heard a healing story quite like that of Bourne-Taylor.

Fledgling, Hannah Bourne-Taylor’s book.

Flock

Finches are tiny birds, perhaps the height of Bourne-Taylor’s little finger. They are extremely reliant on the flock, being so small that when left to themselves, they are easy prey for any hungry carnivore. She describes them as “a flying snack” that will last barely minutes. The proverbial birds of a feather protectively flock together and have an elaborate communication/alarm system. The finch that Bourne-Taylor encountered was somehow lost or separated from the flock. Bourne-Taylor, knowing that was a likely death sentence for the little guy, worried desperately about him for the next 10 hours or so, checking on him repeatedly.   

     Ultimately she decided she better take some action. She attempted to imitate his chirp, and he chirped in reply, ultimately coming to her. What ensued was a remarkable love story that saved them both. The interested can look for her book, Fledgeling, in which she chronicles the whole thing. The little bird ends up making a nest in her waist-length hair, and for the next 84 days, until he is mature enough to be released into the wild, they spend 24/7 together, making a total of over 2,000 hours.

      Bourne-Taylor never named the bird, her mission always being not to make him a “pet” but to return him to his natural habitat. When it was time to let him go, she enlisted her husband to do the “deed,” knowing she would find it unbearable. She also feared that he would not “make it” somehow, that a predator would get to him too fast. And it was a bittersweet time, of triumph and deep grief, when they parted. 

     Both Bourne-Taylor and the little finch were inalterably changed. What she discovered was that her OCD symptoms were gone. She concluded that the unrelenting preoccupation with care for her little buddy kept her so riveted in the present moment, it was like a compelling mindfulness practice that must have changed her brain. Her OCD did not return. She has since become an avid and prolific conservationist and author.

The finch, nesting in Bourne-Taylor’s hair.

Care

 Of course, it is my rallying cry that attachment, or lack thereof, is the source of both the most profound of injury and most profound healing. And although I have known many a survivor of trauma and/or neglect whose first perhaps only safe attachment was their own child, and plenty also whose preferred attachments are to animals rather than humans, I have never heard a healing story quite like that of Bourne-Taylor. Again, I do not know her trauma story, but nonetheless, the little finch was as successful as any therapist I have ever seen.  

     It is a hard sell for survivors that relationships can be anything healing, especially as they have ever been so fraught, dangerous, and ambiguous at best. But I do know that as effective as any of the exquisitely helpful and essential modalities for trauma healing are: somatic therapies, EMDR, Neurofeedback, psychedelics, none are sufficient without the healing of the attachment wound: attachment with a sentient other. For survivors of neglect, even coming to truly believe that is a challenge and a main task of healing. It is a default to imagine it is impossible or just not worth it. I have also seen that when a client somehow breaks through to buying in, their healing takes off. A good therapist, as I like to say, is necessary and insufficient, meaning that talk therapy is not enough, but it is essential. My two cents, and I would not take you anywhere I haven’t been!

     Bourne-Taylor never had the luxury to find out about the rest of the story about her beloved little finch. In a way, he was like “the one who got away.” Similarly, I often never find out what became of clients I had that I cared about a lot, and then under whatever circumstances, they flew from the nest. They might not even imagine how much I had cared, just as I could not imagine that my therapist cared about me. It was her “job,” so why would she think of me when I was not in her sight? Neglect teaches us to imagine that even when we are in view, we barely exist in the mind of the other, if at all. Bourne-Taylor reminds us that the healing bond works in both directions, which is one reason why couple’s therapy is so profound. And although a good therapist does not rely on or “use” their client for their own ends, it is an undeniable privilege to be in such an intimate and essential role. Like Bourne-Taylor, it is bittersweet when people are truly ready to fly on. I like to reassure them that when they do, the door is open should they wish to return for a single visit, a stint, or even another run together. It doesn’t happen that often, which is fine. And I don’t stop watching the horizon for a little flutter of wings.

Today’s song:

My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.

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