A GREAT BLUE heron

I don’t know why birds so often show up in my life, and therefore in my writing. But they do, often serving as conduits for some sort of metaphor about life. Birds have a particularly Vermont association for me: Before moving to Vermont 13 years ago I lived mostly in suburban or urban spaces and rarely noticed birds. I was younger then, and didn’t have the time or curiosity to pay my avian neighbors any mind. I can’t say that I have more time now, but those birds keep breaking in on me.

Over the past 18 months, great blue herons seem to be following me. My house is situated between two streams, so it’s not unusual for me to glimpse a great blue heron standing gracefully atop its long legs in a stream bed. I’m always stirred by the beauty of these birds’ curved silhouettes. But in the past year-and-a-half, it’s great blue herons in flight that have burst repeatedly into my field of vision and stopped me in my tracks. 

In case it’s been a while since you’ve seen a great blue heron, here are some quick facts: The average great blue stands about 4.5 feet tall, has a wingspan of roughly 6 feet, and weighs between 4 and 6 pounds. These are large birds. When you see one lift off and fly, if you’re anything like me, your first thought is, “Holy cow, that bird has no business flying! How does it do that?!?”

Until recently, I’d almost never seen a great blue heron in flight. Now, I see at least one great blue propelling itself across my field of vision every month. Sometimes they’re flying across my back field or over the trees alongside my driveway, but I’ve seen them all over Vermont. I’ve seen them in California. And one magical afternoon by the Nubble Lighthouse in Maine, I saw an entire flock of them flying over the rocky Atlantic coast. 

Maybe they have been there all along; maybe I’m just noticing them now because I’m looking for them, like a self-fulfilling ornithological prophecy. Still, it’s gotten to the point where I’ve started to wonder:  Is someone trying to tell me something? And not far behind that thought: Should I write about this? 

I just wasn’t sure what, or how.

Here is something that I have found to be true: Live long enough, and someone will hurt you unjustly. That seems obvious enough, but until recently, I had never really experienced having an “enemy.” I’d had disagreements with people, of course. I’d been hurt by family members from time to time. But that’s not what I’m talking about here. My hurts were the sort of hurts that come from living closely with the imperfect people we love and are loved by. I’d always been able to resolve these conflicts, or at least to deny them. 

I’m also not referring to the enemies we choose for ourselves; the people (or groups of people) we decide to dislike, for whatever reason. Due to a combination of temperament and spiritual beliefs, I try to see others with empathy and charity.  Sure, there have been various people throughout my life whom I didn’t particularly care for, but for the most part I’ve been able to avoid them. 

What I’m talking about are people who make themselves into our enemies without our consent. People who abuse our trust, who willfully misunderstand our motives, who put words in our mouths that we never said. People who lash out at us in anger when we’re unaware of committing any wrong, and then refuse to accept our apologies. 

Just as my heron sightings have been concentrated, after a lifetime of relative peace I have had several upsetting relational disruptions within the past months. I’ve gained a newfound and unfortunate understanding of how it feels to have enemies. It’s a painful injustice to be going along, trying to do your best in life, and then have someone re-write the narrative casting you as the villain. 

Some mornings I’ve awakened filled with rage: They did this hurtful thing and they got away with it! When someone is convinced that you are the evil one, there is usually nothing you can do to convince them otherwise. Then you start wondering if they’re right. They’ve gotten inside your head, making you doubt your very self. And while it’s not a bad thing to examine oneself and one’s motives, you realize that they won’t attempt to understand your nuances and extend you the benefit of the doubt.

Being hurt like this can feel like having to eat a big plate of steaming dung every day. 

This is where the herons come in.

After seeing my umpteenth-dozen great blue heron in flight this fall, it occurred to me that maybe all those herons were preparing me for this moment. They’ve been showing me what to do when we are hurt, when others make themselves into our enemies: We must shoulder the unbearable weight of that pain and injustice and lift off into impossible flight.

This is the backbreaking work of not allowing ourselves to become hard and bitter. Of refusing to eat our daily serving of dung. Some might call it forgiveness. And it’s not one-and-done; just as I’ve seen herons repeatedly, the work of forgiveness must be done regularly, over and over again. Sometimes daily. Sometimes hourly. 

In writing this, I did an internet search to see what great blue herons symbolize in our cultural mythology. The AI-generated compilation read: “Blue herons symbolize self-determination and self-reliance, reflecting an ability to progress and evolve. They are seen as reminders to follow one’s unique wisdom and path, emphasizing the importance of standing on one’s own while navigating through life.” A little smarmy, but I’ll take it. 

“Do better,” someone spat at me in recent months.  It was meant as a curse. Then I realized that I could turn it into a benediction:  I could do better by determining to extend grace to others, to seek the good behind their imperfection, to refuse to curse them by turning them into villains, and to resolutely combat bitterness. What began as a critique may end up becoming my creed; maybe I’ll make t-shirts.  

It is hard and heavy work to take flight under the weight of our hurts, but if the herons can do it, so can I.   

Faith Gong has worked as an elementary school teacher, a freelance photographer, and a nonprofit director. She lives in Middlebury with her husband, five children, assorted chickens and ducks, one feisty cat, and two quirky dogs. In her “free time,” she writes for her blog, The Pickle Patch.