Yesterday I went out too early and ended up walking in the long, chilly shadows. So today I set out a little later than usual. By the time I got to the reservoir, the sun had crested the treetops. I sat on the deck with my back soaking up sun. Aaaahhhh.
The water was smooth and sunlit. Occasional breezes shivered across the surface. Bright blue sky and feathery clouds admired themselves in the mirror. A heron flew across, low over the water, seeming to admire her regal reflection as well. As I'm peering to watch where she lands, I see there is already a heron in the shallows. Her neck and long beak form a question mark against a back-drop of emerald lily pads.
A squawk turns my attention to another heron. The dead branches she hangs out in are dappled in sun and shade and she's chosen a sunny spot too. She is in the same question-mark pose as her twin in the lily pads.
Question mark on my left and question mark on my right. Appropos of the 2012 equinox, I sit between symbols of uncertainty as the earth tilts toward autumn.
I silently ask these birds what wisdom they have for me, as long as they're raising questions. I reluctantly close my eyes, fold my legs, lengthen my spine, and breathe. The sun penetrates my back. A bee buzzes lazily. The silence enfolds. My breath reels in and reels back out, like the whirring of invisible fishing line casting out into the depths. And from the depths, they answer my query in unison: Be still.
So I follow their advice, sitting and breathing. The breath rising up softly ... releasing ... and falling back down, as gently as the red leaf drifting ... dropping from the hand of the wind onto the pliant water.
In stillness, the questions, the uncertainties -- which make me so uncomfortable -- transform into possibilities.
The unknown -- which can be scary -- transforms into potential, excitement about what may lie ahead.
In stillness, I can abide questions with openness and wonder; I don't need to scramble for anwsers.
I can resist the turning of the wheel of the year or welcome it. Because guess what? Summer is fading into fall whether I approve or not!
Despite the long shadows and shorter days, a brisk chill runs up my spine, reminding me of the abundant beauty and bounty ripe for harvesting now.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Light and Shadow
This morning on my walk I find myself irritated after a long night of restlessness. It's early, barely light, and a guy on a scooter on Two Rod seems to be making an unreasonable amount of noise. People are still trying to sleep, I mutter inwardly.
Also it's chilly. Sixty degrees. I threw on a light sweatshirt, but I'm annoyed that I didn't put a layer underneath.
Truth be told, several of my close friends are dealing with some serious life issues right now. Stuff happening that causes one to succumb to fear and worry. If I had to face these things, I think, I don't know if I could handle it.
And I notice how uncomfortable I am with my uncertainty. All I can do is listen. I can love them and be available when needed. But it seems feeble in the face of life-altering circumstances that are seemingly everywhere right now.
I notice how uncomfortable I am with the knot of fear lodged in my third chakra, center of personal power. How distressed I am at my inability to calm the thoughts chasing themselves around in my head all night long. This sinking feeling of powerlessnes. I try to allow it, to sit with it -- what else can I do at four o'clock in the morning? After a (long) while, daylight is seeping through the blinds. With a sigh, I'm up and looking for my sneakers.
At the pond I find two herons. One is on my left, over in the shadows. Perched on a fallen limb, all scrunched up, looking annoyed. I used to wonder if this bird was even a heron because, with it's shoulders pulled up like that, it's signature long and graceful neck disappears. I have a theory that they assume this position when they're on guard, vigilant. They look like they're not taking any shit from anyone today, so think twice before you get too close.
Over on the right, standing among the sunlit lilly pads is another heron, standing tall in her full glory. At ease. Nothing is bothering her. She looks this way and that.
I shake my head and summon a wry smile at this reflection of my psyche today. Troubled and restless, but wanting to be at ease. Tense, armored against that invading sense of futility and, even worse, the accompanying self-judgment. We are trained to be like that heron basking in the sun -- not to trouble anyone with our troubles. But guess what? Life is not always sunhine and lilly pads. It's ok to glower.
Today I give myself permission to glower!
This morning on my walk I find myself irritated after a long night of restlessness. It's early, barely light, and a guy on a scooter on Two Rod seems to be making an unreasonable amount of noise. People are still trying to sleep, I mutter inwardly.
Also it's chilly. Sixty degrees. I threw on a light sweatshirt, but I'm annoyed that I didn't put a layer underneath.
Truth be told, several of my close friends are dealing with some serious life issues right now. Stuff happening that causes one to succumb to fear and worry. If I had to face these things, I think, I don't know if I could handle it.
And I notice how uncomfortable I am with my uncertainty. All I can do is listen. I can love them and be available when needed. But it seems feeble in the face of life-altering circumstances that are seemingly everywhere right now.
I notice how uncomfortable I am with the knot of fear lodged in my third chakra, center of personal power. How distressed I am at my inability to calm the thoughts chasing themselves around in my head all night long. This sinking feeling of powerlessnes. I try to allow it, to sit with it -- what else can I do at four o'clock in the morning? After a (long) while, daylight is seeping through the blinds. With a sigh, I'm up and looking for my sneakers.
At the pond I find two herons. One is on my left, over in the shadows. Perched on a fallen limb, all scrunched up, looking annoyed. I used to wonder if this bird was even a heron because, with it's shoulders pulled up like that, it's signature long and graceful neck disappears. I have a theory that they assume this position when they're on guard, vigilant. They look like they're not taking any shit from anyone today, so think twice before you get too close.
Over on the right, standing among the sunlit lilly pads is another heron, standing tall in her full glory. At ease. Nothing is bothering her. She looks this way and that.
I shake my head and summon a wry smile at this reflection of my psyche today. Troubled and restless, but wanting to be at ease. Tense, armored against that invading sense of futility and, even worse, the accompanying self-judgment. We are trained to be like that heron basking in the sun -- not to trouble anyone with our troubles. But guess what? Life is not always sunhine and lilly pads. It's ok to glower.
Today I give myself permission to glower!
Friday, August 3, 2012
Quadruple Sighting!
OK, this is not going to be a blog exclusively about herons, but I was gifted with the sight of four of them this morning!
First, I'm standing on the dock, amused by a small fish that is following a turtle through a mucky maze of algae. The turtle turns right, the fish follows. This cracks me up. I watch them for a few minutes, then quietly sit down, hoping not to send them scurrying into the depths. This is when I spot the first heron, flying low over the water. She may have been watching me, watching them.
Next, I spy heron #2. I can't see her feet; she's over there in the tangle of fallen trees, so she could be standing either in the water or on a tree trunk. She is a soft gray, just like the bleached wood in the early morning sun. She hangs out for a while then alights, meeting another heron (heron #1?) mid-flight. The two of them disappear around the bend.
I'm wondering how these turtles suspend themselves in the water the way they do --heads poking up, looking intently, shells hanging at maybe a 45 degree angle below the surface. Motionless. No paddling to keep them afloat. Must be something with their breathing. Pathetically, I know I'll be looking this up.
My gaze wanders along the shoreline. And there's another one. Standing in deep water. It almost looks like she's floating, like a goose or duck. But no, she's still as a statue, only accasionally turning her long beak this way or that. She doesn't seem to be hunting. Just surveying her territiory. Eventually she takes flight too, landing in someone's back yard, as far as I can tell, under a big weeping willow.
So that's my signal to leave. Further along my route is the Highland Street pond and from across the street, between branches, I see something out of the ordinary in the grasses sprouting up along its edges. I cross over, keeping behind a tree so as not to disturb. Another heron! This beauty is large, very tall, perhaps a male? From this vantage point, much closer than my spot at the dock, I can see the powerful yellow beak, the long neck, the individual slate-blue feathers of his folded wings.
I'm regarding him wondering if he's aware that I'm there. Ha! I lift one foot, and he's off. I hadn't even taken a step! Huge wingspan lifting him off onto the shadowy treetops.
Maybe it's the full moon, maybe it's the turn of the earth toward fall. But the herons are out, just like we are, soaking up these precious summer days. I don't know why I'm so fascinated by these creatures except that they're so unusual, and they woke me up to the rhythms of the earth and the value of aligning with them. Learning about these cycles, how the ancient cultures all over the world honored them, somehow brings order and meaning -- and aren't we all longing for that?
Joining the rhythm of the universe pulls one into the flow of something greater than our daily list of things to do. It offers lessons in how to be in the tumult of the troubling times we live in.
An hour with the herons somehow brings healing. Breathing deeply, (like those turtles?!) I bring newly-regained peace and perspective into my busy day.
OK, this is not going to be a blog exclusively about herons, but I was gifted with the sight of four of them this morning!
First, I'm standing on the dock, amused by a small fish that is following a turtle through a mucky maze of algae. The turtle turns right, the fish follows. This cracks me up. I watch them for a few minutes, then quietly sit down, hoping not to send them scurrying into the depths. This is when I spot the first heron, flying low over the water. She may have been watching me, watching them.
Next, I spy heron #2. I can't see her feet; she's over there in the tangle of fallen trees, so she could be standing either in the water or on a tree trunk. She is a soft gray, just like the bleached wood in the early morning sun. She hangs out for a while then alights, meeting another heron (heron #1?) mid-flight. The two of them disappear around the bend.
I'm wondering how these turtles suspend themselves in the water the way they do --heads poking up, looking intently, shells hanging at maybe a 45 degree angle below the surface. Motionless. No paddling to keep them afloat. Must be something with their breathing. Pathetically, I know I'll be looking this up.
My gaze wanders along the shoreline. And there's another one. Standing in deep water. It almost looks like she's floating, like a goose or duck. But no, she's still as a statue, only accasionally turning her long beak this way or that. She doesn't seem to be hunting. Just surveying her territiory. Eventually she takes flight too, landing in someone's back yard, as far as I can tell, under a big weeping willow.
So that's my signal to leave. Further along my route is the Highland Street pond and from across the street, between branches, I see something out of the ordinary in the grasses sprouting up along its edges. I cross over, keeping behind a tree so as not to disturb. Another heron! This beauty is large, very tall, perhaps a male? From this vantage point, much closer than my spot at the dock, I can see the powerful yellow beak, the long neck, the individual slate-blue feathers of his folded wings.
I'm regarding him wondering if he's aware that I'm there. Ha! I lift one foot, and he's off. I hadn't even taken a step! Huge wingspan lifting him off onto the shadowy treetops.
Maybe it's the full moon, maybe it's the turn of the earth toward fall. But the herons are out, just like we are, soaking up these precious summer days. I don't know why I'm so fascinated by these creatures except that they're so unusual, and they woke me up to the rhythms of the earth and the value of aligning with them. Learning about these cycles, how the ancient cultures all over the world honored them, somehow brings order and meaning -- and aren't we all longing for that?
Joining the rhythm of the universe pulls one into the flow of something greater than our daily list of things to do. It offers lessons in how to be in the tumult of the troubling times we live in.
An hour with the herons somehow brings healing. Breathing deeply, (like those turtles?!) I bring newly-regained peace and perspective into my busy day.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
The Dreaming Heron Moon
My calendar refers to tonight's full moon as The Dreaming Heron Moon, noting that, "like the heron, this Aquarius full moon brings the energies of both air and water. Birds of the betwixt and between, most herons hunt at dusk and dawn, along the edge of water and land." (Llewellyn's Witches Datebook, 2012, p. 91)
Dusk and dawn -- potent times of transition -- are the best times for spotting the elusive heron. She teaches patience, stillness, grace. Whether in the air or on the shore, she teaches us to be still, to explore the constantly shifting borders between here and there, then and now.
One recent evening I was able to pause at length, sitting on the dock on the resevoir, as the sun set between moody clouds. One moment they were tinged with blush; the next, deep lavender. After a few moments of meditation, I open my eyes to find darkening clouds amassed like the gaping jaws of a dragon, with fiery "breath" blazing across the sky.
When the summer stars blink overhead, I scramble up. Time to get home. Dusk is coming earlier now and I start to fret. High summer is turning toward first harvest. Then I remind myself to align with this rhythm. Breathe. We still have many more long evenings to read out on the porch until the fireflies blink under the bushes and across the lawns.
Pausing at twilight teaches us to yield to coming changes as seamlessly as day gives way to night.
Kristen Madden, author of this little piece in my calendar, says of the heron that she "can lead us through the veil between worlds and allow us to commune with the Divine." May tonight's full moon open that portal for any who wish to enter!
My calendar refers to tonight's full moon as The Dreaming Heron Moon, noting that, "like the heron, this Aquarius full moon brings the energies of both air and water. Birds of the betwixt and between, most herons hunt at dusk and dawn, along the edge of water and land." (Llewellyn's Witches Datebook, 2012, p. 91)
Dusk and dawn -- potent times of transition -- are the best times for spotting the elusive heron. She teaches patience, stillness, grace. Whether in the air or on the shore, she teaches us to be still, to explore the constantly shifting borders between here and there, then and now.
One recent evening I was able to pause at length, sitting on the dock on the resevoir, as the sun set between moody clouds. One moment they were tinged with blush; the next, deep lavender. After a few moments of meditation, I open my eyes to find darkening clouds amassed like the gaping jaws of a dragon, with fiery "breath" blazing across the sky.
When the summer stars blink overhead, I scramble up. Time to get home. Dusk is coming earlier now and I start to fret. High summer is turning toward first harvest. Then I remind myself to align with this rhythm. Breathe. We still have many more long evenings to read out on the porch until the fireflies blink under the bushes and across the lawns.
Pausing at twilight teaches us to yield to coming changes as seamlessly as day gives way to night.
Kristen Madden, author of this little piece in my calendar, says of the heron that she "can lead us through the veil between worlds and allow us to commune with the Divine." May tonight's full moon open that portal for any who wish to enter!
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Sighting II
This morning I set out on my walk, pausing at the corner to stretch. Forward bend, triangle pose, side stretch, plank -- my asanas are rusty at this hour. In these few minutes the early morning shadows recede. As I sink into warrior pose, every damp blade of grass ignites into a filament chrystalline radiance. The lawn shimmers.
This seems to be a good omen on a big day. First, it's my mother's 76th birthday -- Happy Birthday Shirl the Pearl! Second, we are driving with Meredith, my oldest daughter, to help her move into her first post-grad apartment in Boston. This is my baby, starting her career. In truth, she's a very capable young woman but my intention for this morning's walk is to reconcile myself to the truth that she's leaving home and not for a dorm room. My babe.
My favorite spot along my walking circuit is a friend's backyard dock, on the 1865 (I think that's the right year) Resevoir. I meditate or just gaze out over the expanse of water, rimmed with lush green this time of year. I soak up the peace. And quiet.
This morning there is a gaggle of geese hanging out in the tangle of fallen trees in the shallows over to my left. Adults and ...is there a name for baby geese? They aren't really babies, they were born awhile ago. They're toddlers, I'd guess.
So I'm scanning the shoreline but not too closely because I've learned that the heron is all but impossible to spot, the way she blends in with her surroundings. So I settle in, cross legged on the dock and compose myself for this day of parting from my daughter. Endings and beginnings intersecting in my heart like these overlapping concentric circles rippling outward at my feet.
So, how will I manage today, and how will my beloved manage, leaving his first born in the big city? With a sigh, I watch the geese, setting sail, a fleet of 15. As I'm watching them, I spy the distinctive profile of the great blue heron, standing on the ground.
I scan my memory: have I ever seen her on firm ground? I once saw a heron standing on a frozen pond. A usual spot for perching is the pipe spanning the pond. I once saw her land on a high branch, surveying her kingdom. And of course in the shallows. But I have never seen her on solid ground.
She is standing where a dirt path ends at the water. She takes a few long-legged steps, disappearing behind a clump of cattails. It's like she slipped through a portal into the shadowy woods. And then she comes out the other side. Her long, S-shaped neck scrunches as she appears to regard the parade of geese out on the sunny, glassy lake. As if taking a cue from them, she unfurls her great wings, elongates her neck and takes flight.
I am surprised that the first beat or two of her flight are a bit ungainly -- that leap from earth into air. But in seconds she is effortlessly gliding low over the water. As her wings rise and fall, their tips meet their mirror images in the water. In the down beat, her wings appear to touch their reflections.
As above, so below.
As I follow her flight I see she's meeting a friend across the water. They both land in the rushes, and I give up trying to discern them. Like spies on a mission, they have seamlessly blended into their surroundings.
So perhaps I am fit to leave my child on her own. Perhaps I have an inner "firm ground" to stand on as she takes flight.
This seems to be a good omen on a big day. First, it's my mother's 76th birthday -- Happy Birthday Shirl the Pearl! Second, we are driving with Meredith, my oldest daughter, to help her move into her first post-grad apartment in Boston. This is my baby, starting her career. In truth, she's a very capable young woman but my intention for this morning's walk is to reconcile myself to the truth that she's leaving home and not for a dorm room. My babe.
My favorite spot along my walking circuit is a friend's backyard dock, on the 1865 (I think that's the right year) Resevoir. I meditate or just gaze out over the expanse of water, rimmed with lush green this time of year. I soak up the peace. And quiet.
This morning there is a gaggle of geese hanging out in the tangle of fallen trees in the shallows over to my left. Adults and ...is there a name for baby geese? They aren't really babies, they were born awhile ago. They're toddlers, I'd guess.
So I'm scanning the shoreline but not too closely because I've learned that the heron is all but impossible to spot, the way she blends in with her surroundings. So I settle in, cross legged on the dock and compose myself for this day of parting from my daughter. Endings and beginnings intersecting in my heart like these overlapping concentric circles rippling outward at my feet.
So, how will I manage today, and how will my beloved manage, leaving his first born in the big city? With a sigh, I watch the geese, setting sail, a fleet of 15. As I'm watching them, I spy the distinctive profile of the great blue heron, standing on the ground.
I scan my memory: have I ever seen her on firm ground? I once saw a heron standing on a frozen pond. A usual spot for perching is the pipe spanning the pond. I once saw her land on a high branch, surveying her kingdom. And of course in the shallows. But I have never seen her on solid ground.
She is standing where a dirt path ends at the water. She takes a few long-legged steps, disappearing behind a clump of cattails. It's like she slipped through a portal into the shadowy woods. And then she comes out the other side. Her long, S-shaped neck scrunches as she appears to regard the parade of geese out on the sunny, glassy lake. As if taking a cue from them, she unfurls her great wings, elongates her neck and takes flight.
I am surprised that the first beat or two of her flight are a bit ungainly -- that leap from earth into air. But in seconds she is effortlessly gliding low over the water. As her wings rise and fall, their tips meet their mirror images in the water. In the down beat, her wings appear to touch their reflections.
As above, so below.
As I follow her flight I see she's meeting a friend across the water. They both land in the rushes, and I give up trying to discern them. Like spies on a mission, they have seamlessly blended into their surroundings.
So perhaps I am fit to leave my child on her own. Perhaps I have an inner "firm ground" to stand on as she takes flight.
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