The author’s name is Joanna Brichetto, but I know her as Jo because that’s how I encountered her on Instagram. Scrolling through the mix of inane, profound and humorous posts, I found her observations on nature. I’m a biomimicry writer working to connect the business world to the many genius strategies in nature, so Jo’s work immediately resonated. Follow. Follow back. And there we were — nature friends.
Now she’s written an entire book, and cedar glades are not the only habitat and assembly of plants, animals and natural wonders you’ll find among her pages. Beech trees, sycamores and hackberries (especially hackberries), yellow-billed cuckoos, aphids, garter snakes and frost flowers all hold a place in her attentive and straightforward storytelling. Whether you’re a nature-toe-dipper, full-on naturalist or simply enjoy witty, heartfelt words on human and mostly other-than-human parts of nature, you’ll find This Is How a Robin Drinks to be a delightful cup of tea.
Her setting is Middle Tennessee, although the dragonflies, dandelions and saucy little house wrens in her world could fly through any state in the Lower Midwest, too. She organizes the book to lead us through a year of watching, hearing, smelling, tasting and touching her way through neighborhood nature with her family. She makes the ordinary seem sublime and ratchets up the reader’s recognition of just what’s so important about the natural world. Beginning her chapters in the warmth of summer, she reveals the interplay of dragonflies found in unlikely places and proceeds through multiple warm-weather discoveries before turning to findings in fall and the seasons beyond.
In one autumn encounter with women working at her gym’s front desk (people known but rarely engaged with), she writes of their collective disappointment after a ginkgo tree they all know is cut down after being dubbed a pedestrian hazard. In recognition of the loss, she finds seedlings from the tree as a present to each of them. Even a smelly ginkgo tree can be a meaningful gift to acquaintances who somehow become kin of sorts upon recognizing their mutual appreciation of a golden-leafed tree. The act lifts up the fluttering-leafed entity as a weird and wonderful connector of the women. In my world, the living beings we see daily, or at least regularly, become expected fellow travelers — neighbors to almost nod to as we encounter them on our movements from Point A to Point B. Even those who do not overtly admire nature feel the loss when a tree’s life is cut short for what may seem like arbitrary reasons.
Jo then jots down the story of a beetle we might accidentally step on without thought who then becomes a snack for a big brown bat on the wing. The tannin outline of a leaf on a sidewalk is awe-striking artwork. The “pshhh” of a round of robins landing then dipping and tunneling their way through fallen leaves warms our hearts on a winter solstice day. All of it matters, and there is delight in the escapades of the large and small, the winged and walking, the rooted and fleeting.
In her title essay, she does indeed describe how a robin drinks: “I could see his throat quiver as the muscles worked. No, quiver is too delicate a word. I mean more of a judder, like when my husband turns the hose bibb not quite far enough to the left (“lefty loosey”) and the supply pipe judders in the basement so hard it shakes the kitchen floor.” But that’s not the important bit. Important to the robin, yes, but where she goes from there — that’s the important part. “There is room for a thing to be astonishing and mundane at the same time. An accidental birdbath. Ripples. A sunlit drop at the tip of a beak.” She shows us in a multiplicity of ways that she knows SHE and WE are not the center of nature — only the center of our particular views of nature from wherever we might be.
More than approachable, her language leads into familial intimacy as we learn about her husband, kids and her everyday habits, including daily walks with or without the family dog. The experience of reading the book feels as though she sits chatting amiably with us about topics like birdseed left by unknown persons in isolated park locales or the chemical make-up of walnuts. But she tells us in a way that makes us ask, “What happened next?”
Whether in her pajamas or down in the dirt in daytime attire or racing through a store to rescue a winged one, she offers in-depth knowledge while we giggle, cry or pause in wonder. Most importantly, she conveys the absolute importance and the possibilities for all of us to connect with nature. Without hammering us with the critical nature of food webs, vital structures and functions of the wonders around us, Jo leaves us pausing to ask, What more could we see if we really looked, really connected with a plant, a bird, a place?
Her friendly, practical nature reigns throughout as she assures us, “It can start with one bud on one tree, no matter the color.”