Alert blue heron
Watching for whatever moves.
Looks like a dead stick.
Once when I was coming out of a coma I dreamed I was sitting in a dory in a little cove in the most remote wilderness. It was an exact replay of an actual experience a month or so previous and was of the greatest peace I’ve ever known. There’s a lot more to that story, but I’ll save it for another time.
I’ve always been fascinated with and drawn to wilderness, and when I examine what I mean by that word, I find that it is a place where there is no human habitation – other than my being there to experience it of course. One of my fascinations is that I find that sense of wilderness in the oddest places. The cove mentioned above is on the Navesink River in northern New Jersey a few miles from where you can stand on the beach and see the skyscrapers of New York City. This leads me to wonder if “wilderness” may be more a state of mind than a physically remote or uninhabited place. Or perhaps a state of awareness. After all, sitting in that cove, or the marsh at the southern end of Bunganut Pond where the photo of the heron was shot, the signs of human habitation only exist for me as a memory. The more my mind quiets, the more I am aware that the present moment is nothing more than these grasses, the trees, the heron intensely alert, the occasional flapping sound of wings of what I presume to be a second blue heron out of my sight, the fishes passing under my kayak, and the amazing sense of teaming life in an infinite universe all as close to me as it is distant. This is not an escape, for I know that in a few hours I’ll be battling traffic at the Hampton tolls on I-95. But it is good news, because I know that I can touch this anywhere.
For more about the life that surrounds us, read about another Good Book here.