Next to the island,
a blue heron
steps...steps...steps
- darts forward with the point of its bill
A younger heron comes down the shore, moves closer...
they both continue to
step...step...step...
the glassy surface of the water reflects the green canopy of trees
the slightest breeze registers on its surface
I wait without waiting
After a while, I become aware that something has changed,
the light has changed -
the feeling is different
even though the herons continue to
step...step...step...
I'm
on sacred land, land I grew up with, now protected as Standing Cedars Community Land
Conservancy. Parked in my little camper van, by the St. Croix River in the Kustritz's slough, I am a traveler who has
come home. I've spent my days walking in the woods, wading in the water, and mostly just sitting and looking at the river.
The slough is a place all its own, where few people come - the occasional nature lover in a canoe or kayak, or men with guns and stealthy, camouflaged boats during duck hunting season. It is a place I have all to myself. A place where the current flows quietly under translucent, green leafy canopies, a place of intermittent sun and shadows, where fallen trees and their twisting black roots pile up, banks etched with graceful, sloping sandbars, where the sun lights up the grasses and willows that wave in the breeze, where watercress and cardinal flowers grow along cold springs feeding the slough and the boreal forest bluffs rise up to the sky like a protecting embrace. A place where fish swim under reflections that shimmer on the surface of the water, where herons stalk and eagles nest and hunt, soaring in their element of sky, where muskrats swim and deer browse and beavers gnaw, and where honking geese wheel in, making great splashing landings.
I've been re-living my childhood, carried into that sweet, happy memory of a childhood spent roaming the St. Croix River Valley. I spent entire days, - entire summers - walking, swimming, boating, and inner tubing in the river. Sensations of flow and silky water, sandy grit, sucking mud, rushing current - all the myriad sounds, colors, textures, smells of the river that I experienced as a child were vividly etched into my soul, and they remain undiminished by the passing years, - a deep longing and a resonant vibration struck fresh and lasting in my being, calling me back to the river, again and again.
The beauty of each moment keeps capturing me and I must stop my thinking and my doing and just stand and look. I have become a little bit mad, disappearing into pure sensation. I revel in the fact of not having to interact with people, or the larger reality of my life, for that matter. I have taken time out from it all. Family memories surface. I filter them out, not wanting to feel the grief or regret that might intrude on my enjoyment, though I can’t keep them out of my dreams. For now, though, I keep them at bay. All I want is the river. All I want is this unfettered moment, this occasion of bliss. I am an addict, high on nature.
I watch the blue heron who hunts by the island. For hours it steps….steps….steps…stands motionless, darts forward with the point of its bill.
Time passes...
I am settled into a state of quiet passivity, and after a while I perceive that something is
different…ah yes, the light has changed, the day's long afternoon is about over.
I squat by the side of the river in the sand and touch the water with my fingertips. Even with the lightest touch of my fingers, the ripple spreads all the way to the island, causing the green reflection of willows to distort. I decide to just blow on the water and watch what happens. How incredibly sensitive water is, I think. Though I have chanted “Water is Life” with demonstrators and participated in a “nibiwalk” - a Native-led ceremonial walk the entire length of the St. Croix River, I take water for granted.
In the night I get up to pee. I go down to the water's edge and shine my little flashlight into the water. The minnows are extremely active. I put my hand in the water, and they immediately attack. It's a feeding frenzy, with them bumping up against my hand, unable to penetrate my skin. In the day you hardly see them, they seem rather docile. They are timid, and they tickle when they shyly dart forward to bite the arm or leg thrust into their watery realm.
Yesterday I walked north in the slough to find out if I could get to the main channel of the river. The riverbanks were lush with willows, maples, and the sharp-edged blades of tall grasses, curving into narrow points that waved languidly in the breeze. Clouds trailed in a washed blue sky. The air still held summer’s warmth and rich scents. I waded into the shallow waters from my sandy beach and headed up the eastern side of the slough. The current pushed against my calves, the water sloshing with each step. I dug my feet into the soft silt, breathing in the scent of river water, mud and willows. Staying close to the shore, I sank up to my knees in ice-cold water and black mud where a spring flowed out of the grasses and wild mint into the river. The the prints of deer, raccoons and muskrats were pressed deep into the muddy shore. Bending forward and using my arms to keep my balance, I pulled a leg out of the mud, stepped back into it, pulled the other leg out, and took several more sinking steps until I was on firmer ground in the middle of the slough. Reaching down with my hands, I washed off the black mud clinging to my calves and kept walking, my eyes scanning the trees, curious to see what lay around the bend in the river.
The water got deeper, gradually coming up to my chest. Ahead of me, the slough narrowed and turned to the left, trees blocking my range of vision. It seemed I could go no farther. Miraculously, I was transformed into a fish, my feet lifting from the ground. Liquid coolness wrapped around my shoulders up to my neck, and I floated, legs trailing behind, arms sweeping through the dark, streaming river water. The feeling was ecstatic as I merged with the river. Swimming across the deep pool, I thought of the invisible, silent creatures watching from the bulrushes. Did they gape at my sudden transformation?
What is this Being Among Us? Is it welcome in our native denizen? We will have to wait and see if it brings goodness or harm.
I swam slowly through the dark waters around the bend and was headed towards shore when my feet touched down. I stood upright and continued walking.
Ah, breathed the watching residents of the slough, it’s a bi-pedal creature, just a human being after all. We know their unpredictable nature; we will remain wary.
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blue heron dreaming forest
by Michelle Berditchevsky (used with permission)
this quiet blue green place whispers, an arched door
opens blue reaching into blues
trees into
violet vaults
a poignant secret I can taste, hollowing pools of dream
mirrors ogival pines
ascending arches
a fragile rose breath
in the remoteness it touches, a sweet song
stirs deep blue light bathes
violet green shades
dark and bright layers
a forgotten fragrance, a world more direct, a closer veil in the wind
breathes rhythmic trajectories
of a blue cathedral
primordial calling
through secret corridors,
touches past aeons of being
in solitary deep
blue green forests
the blue heron held this world
