I have a friend who birdwatches. She doesn’t call it birdwatching — she calls it “looking at birds and then ticking them off in my bird book” — but that is what it is, and she’s been doing it for 20 years. A family friend gave her the book for her 10th birthday with a note saying that she seemed like a person who really loved the natural world and had a great appreciation for the living creatures around her, particularly the birds. The note, she says, was crucial. By being anointed as the type of kid who loves birds, she immediately became one, feeling sure that the friend had identified an innate quality she hadn’t yet figured out for herself.
She has a good time with it. She looks at birds and thinks about them and, if you ask her why she likes doing this, will say things like “Well, birds are God’s most magical creatures.”
I have another friend who knits. She started doing it while studying for her finals, needing an activity distinct from reading all day, and now she is a person who can knit. Her family buys her nice wool for her birthday, correctly anticipating that she will make something for them with it, and she is currently at the level of being able to knit gloves. She likes it, she says, because it occupies her hands, it’s satisfying, and it has an astonishingly impressive impact on the sorts of people for whom being able to knit gloves is as out of reach as being able to walk through walls.