Harkness - Bird Therapy

An antidote to the stress and confusion of modern life. This is an honest, warm and positive guide to decompression one bird at a time. Nick Baker, naturalist and TV presenter

This is a generous, honest and gently inspirational book, a touching exploration of the solace we find in neighbourhood nature. Beginners at birdwatching and beginners at life all of us can learn something from Joe Harkness. Patrick Barkham, author of The Butterfly Isles

A gripping, funny, moving and at times brutally honest account of a life spent on the edge, and how one mans passion for birds helped him deal with lifes problems. One of the most important books I have read for a long time. Stephen Moss, author and naturalist

A manifesto for transformation inclusive, unpretentious and evangelical in the best way. Melissa Harrison, author of All Among the Barle y

Nature cannot cure you, but reading this beautiful and honest book will take you very close indeed to the best things going. Tim Dee, author of The Running Sky

The effect of Bird Therapy is to fling open a window onto the sky, the garden, the hedge, the sea wherever you are, onto a very modern mindfulness. Its a real tonic; a prescription, a guide and a hopeful way to soar. Nicola Chester, nature writer and the RSPBs longest-running female columnist

With special thanks to

Bill Bailey

Adam Huttly

Deb Jordan, Pensthorpe Natural Park

This book is dedicated to the loving memory of my aunties, Julie and Ruth. Both believed in me and both believed in the power of nature.

We bump, we bruise, we scrape and graze, we nick, cut, slice and slash our flesh, we bleed. We ache, we sweat, we vomit. We band-aid, we bandage, we medicate. We have surgery. And all of that is fine. Its everyday, its normal, its acceptable. Even when we cry about it, sympathy comes rushing up to tell us that it will be okay.

Last weekend I fell off a ladder and ripped my arm open. I needed thirty stitches and now Im on antibiotics Oh thats awful, is there anything I can do to help?

Last weekend I was hopelessly depressed, so I strung up a sheet to the rafters and tried to hang myself

Silence, or shock, or nothing, because the likelihood of actually saying that is almost nil. Because even now, in the twenty-first century, mental health is still steeped in a lethal taboo which locks sick people up in themselves and leads to tragedy. The day I tied the rope, estimated its stretch and used a tape to measure the drop but didnt kill myself I had three normal telephone calls with friends and family. And none of them had any idea what had so nearly happened because I had no capacity to tell them. There was no bridge, no angle, no route to that discussion because my agony was not allowed. I was a boy, and boys dont cry, men cant fail; we have to be strong. Our lips cant quiver, they have to be stiff and upper. But that is all so obviously wrong, and the cost is immeasurable. The unacceptable male suicide rates in the UK are sadly only part of a desperate mental health crisis.

My dogs saved me. A human saved Joe Harkness, and this is his story. It will be hailed as brave, courageous or bold. Its not; hes not. Its simply true and he is simply honest. He has told his harrowing and reassuring and wonderful story full-frontal, cleverly, articulately, essentially and creatively. His journey is a map of recovery and understanding, and its graphic presence will undoubtedly serve as a template for others to find respite, through seemingly unlikely means a connection with nature, a love of birds. But if this strikes you as a quirky, niche therapy with little real world application then read on. Joe spells it out frankly but critically, qualifies it with authority, and presents a very compelling case for the efficacy of natural health.

I read lots. Bad, good, interesting, important and occasionally brilliant books. I cant remember the last book that I read that I could say with absolute assurance would save lives. But this one will. So from my perspective that makes it an exceptional book. Thank you, Joe; you are a top bloke, a real human not brave, but rare.

Chris Packham

New Forest

013. The bedsheet was twisted as tight as I could physically wrench it and tied off tightly on to one of the beams above. In the absence of any rope, or rationality, it would have to do. Standing astride the hollow loft hatch, I looked through the small black void into the hallway below, but could hardly see anything. Life presented itself in silhouettes, formless shapes viewed through tear-burned eyes. I no longer wanted to be here anymore. I no longer wanted to be anywhere. It wasnt the first time Id been in this place, but every time, I wanted it to be the last.

I yanked the makeshift noose to check its tightness and started to place it around my neck; it felt soft and warm where Id twisted it, in contrast to the stony coldness in my mind. The serene silence was broken by a door opening, frightened shouting and footsteps, running up the stairs. An interruption how untimely stern and caring words, urging me to stop. I was talked down, quite literally, and pleaded with to consider the wider implications of my actions upon other people but I couldnt. It was evident that I needed help, but I continued to do all I could to avoid getting any.

Upon reading these opening paragraphs, I implore you not to think that this book is going be a solemn read; I promise that Bird Therapy is a positive tale. Its a joyous journal, charting how the discovery of birdwatching transformed my life for the better. That moment was to be a turning point in my life and the catalyst for this book. This my mental health is the first of the two elements that form the story of Bird Therapy and in order for my story to spread its metaphorical wings, we have to start at the bottom.

Four months after this emotional nadir and I was hungry. On the cobbled streets of Norwich are many places to devour a full English breakfast, in fact so many that we even have our own fry-up inspector. There I sat, guzzling artisan bacon alongside two of my friends, lining our stomachs in preparation for the annual Norwich beer festival. In this chic caf, all mahogany chairs and chalkboard menus, I admitted to outsiders, for the first time, that there was something wrong with my mental health. It was a heady moment and it felt like a proverbial weight had been lifted from my mind. The dirty little secret Id been lugging around and hiding away was finally out in the open.

I ploughed into the festival with renewed optimism, masking my actual fragility with copious amounts of real ale, as Id long conditioned myself to do. As the afternoon drinking session drew to a close, we made the decision to walk to a nearby pub to continue imbibing, but I was nearing a point I knew all too well the point where I lose all inhibition, self-control and awareness. After a short while and a few pints, a gentleman approached me at the bar and asked me if I was related to my father stating how much I looked like him when he was younger and what a great guy he was when he knew him. My inebriated self snapped back at him, snarling and sniping that I didnt want to know anything about him and was nothing like him.