Behind the Puddle

Stella and Stanley flew in together this morning after two days away.

As soon as I saw them, I realized something.

I had missed them.

That probably doesn’t make much sense. Great Blue Herons have been visiting this puddle for decades. Missing them for a couple of days shouldn’t make me wonder if they’ll ever return.

And yet, it does.

When they don’t appear, I find myself looking across the water anyway. Every movement in the trees catches my attention for just a moment. I wonder if today will be the day they come back.

This morning, they answered that question together.

One settled high in the familiar tree while the other was already making its way to the water’s edge, both exactly where they belonged.

It’s funny how quietly relationships are formed.

I don’t know Stella and Stanley in any real sense. They don’t know my name. They aren’t here because of me.

But over time, we’ve become part of one another’s ordinary days.

Their visits have become one of the small rhythms that mark the seasons behind the puddle.

Their absence reminds me how much I notice them.

Their return reminds me how much joy can arrive without saying a word.

Maybe that’s one of the quiet gifts of paying attention.

The things we come to love don’t have to belong to us.

Sometimes it’s enough simply to be grateful when they return.

Losing Your Footing

This morning I watched one of the herons walk up the bank toward the trees. Halfway up, it lost its footing for just a second. A small slip. Nothing dramatic. It caught itself, took another step, and continued into the grasses until it disappeared from view.

It made me smile.

We often think grace means never stumbling.

But perhaps grace is simply continuing after you do.

Nature rarely apologizes for its awkward moments. It doesn’t replay them or wonder who noticed. It simply keeps going.

Maybe that’s a lesson worth carrying with us.

Even the most graceful creatures lose their footing sometimes.

Reflection

They will always be my puddle connections.

When I think back on these days behind the puddle, I know Stella and Stanley will be among the first memories that come to mind.

I still hold dearly their majestic appearance and the way they always seem so regal. But today I was reminded of something I hadn’t fully appreciated before.

I’ve also come to love the parts that are less polished.

The awkward landing.

The slip climbing the bank.

The playful chase through the trees.

The days they disappear altogether.

Maybe we’re not so different.

Most of us hope to be seen at our best. We want to appear capable, graceful, and as though we have everything together.

But we stumble.

We play.

We have days when we simply need to disappear for a while.

None of those moments lessen our worth. They don’t take away our abilities or our value.

They simply make us real.

This morning I found myself smiling as I watched two magnificent birds fumble, recover, and play.

Not because it proved they aren’t perfect.

But because it reminded me they were never meant to be.

They’re simply another life making its way through the day.

And somehow, that makes them even more beautiful.