Dear CarolynMarie:
This time of year, the marsh grasses along the banks of Antigonish harbour are honey golden in hue. Migratory birds on their way elsewhere alight here for a day or two and then move on. Within the many inlets and along the small rivers that empty into the estuary, the herons stand regally present, and patient – still points in a turning world.
Once, years and years ago, a great blue heron landed close to me, wings outstretched, and fixed me with the presence in its eyes. There was a moment of intensity, a questioning of sorts, then it was gone - awkwardly at first, but then with studied grace. It seemed within that brief moment of our meeting that I fell into a world unknown to me except in dreams, a world beyond imagining, a world more real than the one I sit typing in today. It is a world of deep, deep grace; a world of still composure; a world wherein “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well”
It is a lullaby best sung by friends beside a river, or at your bedside when words of love and grief and pain grow still like herons on the shore.
Jim