Been a long time ...

... since I have posted; many distractions emerged along the way.  Most significant is a decision about a position in California.  I spare my friends and family the details that would not be interesting.  What I want to share is how I came to the decision.  Largely, it was through friends, tremendously kind and deeply thoughtful people who were willing to dive into the many issues that came into play and work through the discernment with me.  The denouement came magically.

Herons have long held a spiritual, some may say superstitious, grip on me.  When I was pregnant with Nikko through the fall and early winter, I would drive to Syracuse to visit my doctor.  I had chosen to go to Syracuse because the doctor was in a solo practice and because the hospital where he had privileges contained a neonatal unit.  As most of the readers of this blog know I have a brother who half a century ago was born very prematurely and suffered severe brain damage as a result of the consequences, and, at that time, underdeveloped understandings of those conditions and few genuinely salutary assistive technologies.  Not knowing the reasons for my mother's premature labor I thought that the least I could do was to be sure that if it were my condition too I would be at a hospital that had the facilities to take care of the baby.  Hence, every few weeks I trekked through Route 366 along Fall Creek on my way to the Interstate.  And when I saw a heron I interpreted that sighting as a sign that everything was going to be okay.  Nikko was born with 10/10 APGAR rates exactly on his due date in late January.

It is no wonder that over this weekend, after I had taken the boys with me to California, I retreated finally to one of my cherished locations on the planet: Upper Buttermilk State Park, not .2 miles from my house and where I have hiked frequently.  The day before, Friday, had seen much rain, breaking a record heatwave, and so the marsh was unusually full.  That circumstance might explain why there stood at its edge a heron as I happened by.  Denise was with me, but in the mood for a power walk, I invited her to push ahead.  I stood for some time, silent, unmoving, watching the heron.  Looking for a sign.

Those who know about or have watched herons recall that they are a model of poise and patience.  They can stand in leg deep water motionless for a very long time until one svelte strike at something of the fish or amphibian species.  If you are not watching consistently, you will miss the move because it happens so quickly.  Apart from a swallow, the bird hardly alters its position.  Unlike other species -- mammals come to mind -- they don't dance around and make of show of their victory.  If they did, the second, third, and on infinitum victim would undoubtedly be alerted to the danger and swim or jump away.

I walked on.  When I met up with Denise, she asked if the heron had a message.  "No," I said, "it just kept fishing."  On we walked, and on we talked together and then later with Carrie who has been especially helpful all along the way.  By the end of the day Denise and I weighed factors and explored feelings and priorities.  The next day I returned to the park (Denise having gone back to Rochester for services on Sunday) and again the heron performed the same way.  That night a conversation with my friends Annemarie and Meredith (from Hawaii) stirred my thinking.  I returned early in the morning the next day.  There was the same bird, just standing.  I had another friend on my mind, someone who had recently written me by email of the very unfortunate and unexpected death of his beloved wife of over 50 years.  I had responded to his email.  I had informed mutual friends and colleagues, but because I was so overwhelmed with the job question I had not done as much as I had hoped to in order to acknowledge his grief.  While in California I had thought of him often and had decided on exactly the one card I wanted to send him.  I resolved to quicken my walk to write him.

I wrote from a thin place, the metaphorical name for a state of being closer to a spiritual sensibility than the world that is too much with us usually provides.  I started to tell him about the job but quickly turned to the bird and when I related my conversation with Denise on that first day, the meaning became clear (as it probably has for you already): keep fishing.

I have just returned from my fourth consecutive day walking around the trail around Upper Buttermilk.   Even though it was sunrise, the usual heron hour, the bird was gone.  That's okay.  I have my decision.  And most important, a meaningful network of family and friends and community.