Channeling My Inner Heron

What do you do when your photography mojo has gone completely AWOL?

When stress, grief, migraines, and neck pain have taken up permanent residence in your life, and your creative spark seems to have packed its bags and left without so much as a goodbye?

Apparently, you start digging through old photographs.

Not ancient photographs, mind you. Just the hundreds (okay, probably thousands) of images I've taken on my adventures and never gotten around to sharing.

I've been hoping that revisiting those moments might reignite something in me. A little inspiration. A little motivation. A reminder of who I am when life isn't quite so heavy.

Because lately? Life has been heavy.

It's autumn on Vancouver Island. My favourite time of year. The air is crisp, the sunshine is beautiful, the leaves are changing, and the natural world is putting on one of its most spectacular shows.

I should be out there reveling in every glorious moment.

But I'm not.

My stamina is next to nothing, my neck is giving me grief, the migraines have been relentless, and my mind?

Oh, my mind. It has been sooooo incredibly noisy.

You know that little voice in your head that sometimes likes to offer unsolicited opinions? Mine has apparently acquired a megaphone.

*You can't do this.*

*You're no good at that.*

*No one loves you.*

*You're alone.*

*You're worthless.*

On and on and on.

And underneath all that noise is grief.

Four years after losing my mom, I still cry every single day.

Every. Single. Day.

Sometimes I get frustrated with myself. Four years! Surely I should have figured this out by now? Surely I should be able to let go, move forward, and stop feeling like there's a giant hole in my life?

But grief doesn't seem particularly interested in following a timeline.

And the truth is, I miss her.

I miss her voice, her love, her comfort. I miss knowing that no matter how difficult life became, there was someone in my corner who could make things feel just a little less overwhelming.

Especially now, with all the physical pain and medical challenges I've been dealing with. The one person I want to turn to isn't here anymore. Some days, it genuinely feels like she abandoned me here on Earth while she went off to Heaven to continue her own journey.

I know that's not fair. I know she didn't choose to leave me. But grief isn't always rational, and neither are the feelings that come with it.

Sometimes I just want my mom.

And then I look through my wildlife photographs.

And something shifts.

There are birds doing their wonderfully ordinary birdie things.

Some are searching for their next meal. Others are squabbling with friends, family, or anyone who happens to invade their personal space. Some are busy preening, bathing, or generally going about the important business of being birds.

And then there's the Great Blue Heron.

Standing quietly, feathers fluffed, neck tucked into its body for warmth, watching the world go by.

Completely unbothered.

Not worrying about tomorrow. Not replaying yesterday. Not wondering whether it's good enough, talented enough, successful enough, or loved enough.

Just being a heron.

I really need to channel my inner heron.

It makes me wonder about the emotional lives of wild animals.

Do they miss those they've loved? Do they experience grief the way we do? Do they lie awake worrying about whether they're enough? Do herons get migraines?

Seriously. I'd love to know.

We know that some animals grieve. They form bonds, experience loss, and respond to the absence of those they've loved.

But watching wildlife, I'm struck by how life continues around them.

The tides still change. The salmon still return. Birds still search for food, defend their territories, and settle into their feathers when the weather turns cold.

Life keeps moving.

Not necessarily because it's easy, but because that's what life does.

And somewhere in all of that, there's a lesson I've been struggling to learn.

I don't have to solve everything today. I don't have to have a grand plan, produce something extraordinary, or prove my worth to anyone.

Maybe some days, simply existing is enough.

Maybe I can just be a heron.

This is why I escape to the wild.

Not because my problems magically disappear when I step into a forest or sit beside the ocean. They don't. My neck still hurts. My mom is still gone. The grief is still there.

But something extraordinary happens when I'm watching a bird, listening to the wind move through the trees, or waiting quietly for a wild creature to reveal itself.

The noise in my head begins to fade.

For a few precious moments, I'm no longer caught between yesterday's sadness and tomorrow's worries.

I'm simply there. Present. Watching. Listening. Breathing.

And sometimes, feeling pure, uncomplicated joy.

Nature doesn't ask me to be productive. It doesn't care how many photographs I publish, how successful I am, or whether I've checked anything off my never-ending to-do list.

It simply allows me to exist.

And perhaps that's what I've been missing lately. Not just my photography mojo, but the permission to exist without constantly expecting more of myself.

Going through these photographs has reminded me that there's still so much life happening out there. So much beauty. So many moments worth witnessing.

Even when I'm not quite ready to participate in all of them.

Maybe the spark hasn't disappeared after all.

Maybe it's just resting.

Like a Great Blue Heron, tucked into its feathers, waiting for the right moment to stretch its wings again.

So, if you're struggling too, if your mind is unbearably loud or life feels heavier than you know how to carry, perhaps you can find a little time to escape into nature.

You don't have to hike a mountain, chase the perfect photograph, or accomplish anything at all.

Find a quiet spot. Watch the birds. Listen to the wind. Let the world carry on around you.

And for a little while, give yourself permission to simply be.

I'm going to keep trying to channel my inner heron. Because right now, I think that wise old bird might be onto something.