Even Herons Need to be Alone Sometimes
It’s been a week and change since I went to my tiny cabin by the river. Since my time there, I’ve doubled down on my early morning walks. Even on mornings when I have lots to do, I make time for my quiet walks, often in the cold dark early morning. I know that this quiet will nourish me for the day.
I’m back at work and preparing to go on another trip — first to my father-in-law’s memorial and then to visit my mother. The trip is sweetened by the fact that my daughter, who I haven’t seen in months, and her roommate will meet me there for a few days.
I feel some pressure to get everything done before I leave and I recognize that familiar feeling to start my work day earlier than normal. But I know that skipping my morning walk will not help things. It will make me resent the other hours of the day for having cheated myself of my morning quiet.
It used to be that I’d see a Great Blue Heron every time I walked in the mornings. I knew most of its resting spots along the lake. But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one. Then last week my partner came home from an afternoon walk and told me she’d seen seven herons on the dock at the park.
“WHAT?!” I exclaimed when she told me.
I was so excited to learn that the herons are back. I haven’t seen a heron in months. For much of my adult life, herons have represented a sign of stillness and calm to me. Seeing a heron is like a message from the universe to slow down and be still. Spending time with a heron reminds me that the world is much bigger than me, that I can stop moving as fast and I will still be okay.
On my next few morning walks I felt a sense of hopefulness that I’d start seeing herons again. I even changed the route I usually walk and made my way to the dock where my partner had spotted them a few days before. But there were no herons.
Then last Saturday, my partner and I went on an early morning walk to look at the beavers who like to travel from the park by our house to a lodge they’ve build by the marina across the lake. Early in the morning you can watch them making their way across the still lake. That vision is almost as wonderous as seeing a heron.
On our walk, we marveled at the adorable beavers and when “Beaver Rush Hour,” as my partner calls it, was over, we prepared to head home.
“Let’s go by the heron rookery and see if there are any herons,” my partner said. Because it was a weekend, I had no time limit on my morning so I agreed. Up the hill, away from the lake on a quiet residential street, there is a heron rookery. At the right time of year, which I now know is spring, the herons roost there. As we approached the rookery I saw, first from a distance, and then up close, dozens of nests and herons, resting in them.
I was, as I always am, struck by their gigantic elegance. As I stood in the woods below the rookery, I was awash in a feeling of majesty. From where we stood, we could see chicks alongside their mothers in some of the nests.
We watched as the mature herons took flight, circled the perimeter and came back to the rookery. My heart was full. I felt as though I’d been given an infusion of liquid grace, like I’d walked into a secret doorway of goodness and was coming out the other side.
I rode on the feeling of wonder all day. I shared what I’d seen with friends and felt a sense of comfort knowing the herons were there, roosting in stillness, just a few blocks from my house.
On Monday morning I went on my usual walk. I’d gone skiing the day before and my legs were sore and tired and I felt heavy as I made my way along the lake. Maybe because of the aches and pains in my body, or maybe because it was a Monday, the excitement to greet the day that I normally feel while walking was missing.
When I got to the inlet where I used to see my daily heron, I looked for one like I always do, but the space was empty. Then a vision of the rookery flashed in my mind. Even though I was heading in the opposite direction, if I hurried I could go back there and still get to work on time. It was only a few blocks out of the way.
I turned on my heels and made my way through the neighborhood, away from the lake, to the rookery. Minding my limited time, I walked quickly up the hill. I could see all the nests and the clusters of herons from a distance. But as I got closer to the rookery itself, I slowed my pace so I could walk while looking up and not trip. As I approached the end of the street I saw, above me, a lone heron resting in a tree next to a garage.
This heron was all by herself. No nest, no baby. She was closer to the ground than all of the other herons, distinctly out of the safety of the woods. There she was, my messenger.
“Hello,” I said under my breath, “did you need some time alone this morning?”
I stopped walking and stood beneath this beautiful creature. I was, again, filled with a sense of awe. Seeing this heron alone, while all her friends and family were doing their business a short flight away in the rookery, renewed and affirmed me in an even deeper way than seeing all of the herons a few days before.
“You’re like me,” I thought as I stared up at this heron, not wanting to lose sight of her even for a moment, “you just need to be alone sometimes.”