An Observation

As I walked across the bridge this morning, I saw a great blue heron perched serenely on a rock far out in the water, sitting so still I thought it wasn’t real. But a few moments later, just after I pulled out my camera to capture it, it darted its beak forward, in one swift movement, jabbing its acknowledgement to my silent presence. I looked away for a moment, concentrating on my camera, and when I glanced back it was gone, with no flurry of the wings, no trace to remind me of its presence. But the image remained, that final stand before the plunge, bursting into the air with a silence that is felt but not noticed. I wondered if I had been wrong to try and capture this moment, to record it, and if the heron objected to my fascination. Moments like this are magical when they happen, and every attempt to capture them, including this piece of writing, allows us to distill a small part of the magic that we can always revisit. Paintings, photographs, journals, they each have a purpose. But I sometimes wonder if in my obsession with documentation I have lost some of my reverence for the present and engaging in direct experience.

This moment reminded me of another, much more successful, attempt to capture magic and express it—a painting by Magritte that we studied in the library during our Writing and Thinking workshop and, for me, at least, raised more questions than it answered. Why, in this image, was a dove, not normally an aquatic bird, portrayed rising over the ocean? Was it a reference to the biblical story of the flood? Why was the painting entitled “La Grande Famille”? Was it implying that we are all part of one big family? What does the dove represent, painted with the uplifting sight of a beautiful blue sky, rising through a gray cloudy expanse? Are we rising together on the wings of a dove and yet bound to earth by the rush of wave and wind? How much do these questions matter? This was part of the purpose of our assignment, a sort of scientific investigation into the mind of the artist, in order to discover not only the purpose of the painting but also the validity of our inquiries.

Likewise, I found myself wondering about the heron and its presence on my morning walk. I wondered about its diet, habitat, and it metaphorical significance.  Was it common in this area? Did it have a nest down by the water?  How did my presence affect it? Obviously it was stirred into movement. Was I the cause, or simply an insignificant factor, a small figure in the distance? I cannot answer these inquiries without gaining some insight into the heron’s own mind; the closest I can come is to frame my questions in the context of this account.

I appreciated both birds, painted and corporeal, because they gave me something to write about, a moment to record, and because theirs was an image I carried engraved upon my mind for the rest of the day merely for the beauty they embodied. We are called upon to appreciate beautiful things for themselves, to sit in silence and observe in wonder. Yet I still seek to understand their meaning. The act of questioning, and searching for answers, can be a fulfilling one, and that, I suppose, is what urges me to record a moment, even just so that I am able to comprehend it later on.

Passive appreciation and active investigation need not be mutually exclusive, but they are often treated as such. In fact, one might argue that attempting to replicate an observation, or at least question it, increases one’s appreciation for it. Seeing a plant in the wild may be a wonderful experience, but viewing a painting that represents the same plant can be equally fulfilling. They both require an attention to details, sense of wonder and the belief in some larger scheme. Art is built upon the imperfections around us and the high ideals that arise from them.  In the end, a Great Blue Heron may not really have much to do with a painting of a dove. But both moved me to record their presence, so that I could remember it outside the misted lens of memory. Both images suggest that there is something greater, and that we may be able to discover it if only we ask the right questions.