I’ve heard it said the great blue heron
is a sign of good luck
As if she didn’t earn every moment of stillness
through a lifetime of practice
As if her entire existence is not a choice
between an impatient lunge of blind hope
and the deliberate strike to ensure her survival
The great blue heron, master of herself
Nothing about the heron is lucky
It is a choice
If I could speak to birds as a girl,
I would have picked this one to run to first
I would have thrown myself into the water
and begged her for answers
I would have told her:
Give me your courage
your unwavering legs
spindles that keep you upright like roots guiding a tree
Give me your wings that slice the sky in two
and let you soar so far away from here
Give me your fearless flight
Give me your stillness
like it’s a gift from god
and not the art of living in perfect sync with yourself
But I’ve spent half my life watching the blue heron
and thinking my survival is a stroke of luck for it
No
It’s not
It’s a choice
And watching the blue heron has taught me one thing
So now I’d spread my arms like I could join her in flight
and I’d tell her
Thank you for teaching me I saved myself