Making Murmuration

Probably three to seven and likely no more than ten. That’s how many people, statistically speaking, make up your squad. Your flock. 

Most people have a squad. A 2023 report from Pew Research shared that while 8% of Americans reported having no close friends, 38% reported having five or more close friends. Around 53% of adults have between one and four close friends. Age demographics have something to do with how many close friends we are likely to have, with almost half (49%) of adults over 65 reporting they have five or more close friends compared to 32% of people younger than 30. 

Why five? Perhaps we start the pattern early and just keep it up our whole lives. A quick Google search will turn up the common wisdom that children need approximately five trusted adults who are not their parents. 

Or maybe it’s something inborn, a sort of “starling instinct” to attune to a handful of our nearest neighbors. 

If you look to the sky on cold purple evenings, when the horizon’s hem is edged in an apricot  ribbon, you might notice a stand of trees shiver and then burst into motion. The sudden eruption of synchronized swooping wings is called a murmuration. Several bird species, including starlings, perform this dance, undulating and swirling like a silk scarf. Ornithologists suppose that the birds may be hunting insects that are active at dusk, relying on safety in numbers to keep them from being hunted in turn by falcons or hawks. 

Murmurations occur over large roosts like docks or groves of trees where birds flock together. As far as we can tell, these intricate formations, which might include hundreds or even thousands of birds, have no leader. Unlike an orderly V-shaped procession of Canada geese, where birds trade positions periodically to travel great distances efficiently, murmurations are more mysterious. How do the birds know when to launch themselves suddenly into the air? How do they choreograph their dance? 

As with human relationships, simple questions seem to have complicated, enigmatic answers. How do we begin? How do we maintain connection? Where are we supposed to go and when? 

In 2023 the same year as Pew reported that over 90% of Americans have at least one close friend, the Surgeon General released findings that loneliness and social disconnection had been steadily increasing since 1979, particularly among young people. The same report illustrated the gravity of this reality by noting that the lack of social connection can literally impact our physical health, increasing risk of premature death by 29%—roughly equivalent to the risk associated with smoking fifteen cigarettes a day—and increasing our risk of heart disease by 29% and our risk of stroke by 32%. In other words, we’re heartsick. 

Ask how we got here and you’ll typically get a couple of answers. 

We live in a culture that incentivizes isolation. Success supposedly looks like your own house. It looks like a buffer of manicured lawn between a tight-lipped garage door and the public sidewalk. On a cul de sac. In a subdivision. Success supposedly looks like not having to take the bus because you have a car. It looks like a walled corner office instead of a cubical. 

Success is self-made. Need is social programs. 

And, to be honest, self-sufficiency feels successful too. It feels secure—a layer of insulation separating us from the communities and structures that have let us down, used us, betrayed us, sinned against us. We heard one soulless retail job after another and a parade of churches abuse the word “family” until it lost its meaning:

“You’re part of the family!”

No, I’m not. 

And speaking of cheapened words, many people point to social media with its “friendships” of questionable authenticity but endless quantity. If our attachment to online connections is at least partially to blame for our loneliness, the situation was exacerbated by the Covid pandemic when we turned to digital outlets for entertainment, information, and vital connection. Online spaces also became a primary means of participating in activism. As we watched the confluence of systemic issues and global disasters, many became desperate to do something. 

But hashtags, petitions, and awareness-raising wears me out so quickly and seems to do so little good. I don’t think anything makes me feel quite so small as realizing that the largest thing I seem able to do is cast a vote or sign my name. 

So then I turn from the whole world and twist my lens to focus on the local. Deep breaths. Start with your community, your neighborhood, your roost. 

I heard recently that the birds in a murmuration are not paying attention to the whole hundred-strong flock, but only to their seven closest neighbors. And that’s how they keep in formation. 

I’ve probably heard more sermons and done more Bible studies on “The Good Samaritan” than any other Bible story. It may be warranted. The question “Who is my neighbor?” is perennially relevant. How should we adjust the scope of our care? Particularly, how should we care as we stumble under double burdens of overwhelm and isolation? 

I think it’s interesting that we don’t call this story “The Good Neighbor” or “The Good Passerby.” Because one of the parable’s points seems to be that we don’t really get to pick our neighbors. We don’t get to pick the people near us, the people that we need, or the people who need us. We shouldn’t set the boundaries on neighborhood based on who is convenient, or tidy, or useful, or reciprocal, or agreeable. It’s just the people who are there. 

When the murmuration begins, it’s not about the big picture. We tune into the five or seven people who happen to be nearest to us. It works for the birds anyway.