Zen and the Search for Blue Herons
Oh, the Cuyahoga...the river that
caught on fire...of course that was before my time.
The river does indeed still burn, but mainly in the hearts of tortured poets. This place had become one of refuge during my last few years in Kent, Ohio.
Solitude. Safety. Calm.
As my departure date from Tree City loomed, my doubt and desperation grew. So on Thursday, March 16, 2013, I went
down to the river with a clear purpose in my mind. I went to find the Great Blue Heron...
Hug the river’s edge…Step
purposefully from rock to rock…Try to calm the mind...Remember truth. Breathe.
Smile?
I found the mallard ducks, the wood ducks and the Canadian geese. My presence is not entirely trusted, but I keep to myself.
Pass under another bridge. Ohio
State Route 59. I sit for a moment on the concrete underpass. Lazy graffiti,
nothing monumental, but that is okay. And
there, in the middle of the river [rushing water] someone has built a shrine of
stones. Sacred alter of the river gods.
There are two young people sitting on a nearby ledge, leaned in close to one another. I think in that moment that this entire world was probably created just for them, for these few shared moments right here…
I go further. All the way to John
Brown Tannery Park. Past the place where we once gathered to remember Christian. Oh
sweet Christian, broken Christian, he knew about the circling, circling, still
circling… He was the one who said that everything with wings is an angel...
I know that every step I take downstream is one I must be willing to give back, but when my legs begin to ache I push on.
Further, past the fisherman.
Any
luck?
Nothing yet.
Finally, as the day grows late, my path is swallowed by the river. Only when my shoe fills up with mud and water do I concede defeat.
Nothing yet.
Finally, as the day grows late, my path is swallowed by the river. Only when my shoe fills up with mud and water do I concede defeat.
I sigh. No Blue Herons. No siguls in
the stones. Time to go home.
Later, I will think of Robert
Pirsing [Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintence] and remind myself, “The only
zen you find on tops of mountains is the zen you bring there.” Apparently, the
same holds true for answers in the rivers.
The return trip takes much less
time. It isn’t long before I am in view of Heritage Park, where my journey had
begun.
Stop. 
I drop to my knees on an algae slicked rock. Because there he is, the Great Blue heron.
How serendipitous that my desire should manifest at the beginning (the universe loves its little jokes).
The heron spreads his impressive
wings and flies closer.
It seems appropriate to return this
gesture. After all, large flat stones pave my way.
There I sat and watched the
Fisher King, Lord of the Cuyahoga. So too did he watch me.
wordless palaver
And when we finished I whispered my thanks, said a small prayer, and left him there.
The Great Blue Heron continued to
fish, and so did I.
