This morning, Facebook handed me a memory from fourteen years ago, and all I could do was smile and laugh. On August 14, 2012, I apparently spent almost an hour watching a little blue heron stalk a twelve-inch bass that was stuck in the mud of the puddle. I wrote, “That little bird is more patient than I am.” Fourteen years later, I can still remember watching him.
I remember the mud, the fish, and that little heron standing there waiting for exactly the right moment. I remember watching what I then thought of as Stanley stalk that fish, completely fascinated by something happening right in our backyard. I didn’t have a patio then, I wasn’t writing Puddle Stories, and I certainly wasn’t thinking about Waypoints. I was simply watching a bird.
Except maybe I wasn’t simply watching.
Today, Stella and Stanley have become such an important part of life Behind the Puddle that it is difficult to imagine the puddle without them. I watch them arrive, fish, stand perfectly still, fly from one side to the other, perch in the trees, and occasionally do something that makes me laugh. They have brought me an amount of peace and joy I never could have anticipated. Some days, sitting quietly and watching them is exactly what I need.
Finding that old Facebook memory reminded me that this relationship didn’t begin this summer. Long before I knew Stella and Stanley by name, long before I understood how important this little ecosystem would become to me, I was already stopping to watch the herons. Apparently, they were already capable of holding my attention for an hour. I just didn’t know yet what that attention meant.
There is something wonderful about discovering evidence of an earlier version of yourself already doing something that would someday become important. In 2012, I didn’t call it Presence, Attention, Noticing, or Patience. I didn’t need to give it a name. I only knew there was a little heron trying to catch a fish, and for some reason I wanted to stay and see what happened.
Fourteen years later, I understand that reason a little differently. The puddle has taught me that noticing doesn’t always announce itself as something meaningful while it is happening. Sometimes it looks like wasting an hour watching a bird stalk a fish. Sometimes meaning doesn’t reveal itself until years later, when Facebook unexpectedly hands the moment back to you.
And perhaps my favorite part of the whole memory is that I thought the heron was more patient than I was. Fourteen years later, I am still watching herons wait beside the water, and they are still teaching me patience. The difference is that now I recognize the lesson.
The heron was here before the patio. Before Puddle Stories. Before Behind the Puddle had a name and before I understood that paying attention to this ordinary little place could change the way I experienced my days.
The heron was here before I knew to notice.
Or maybe, as this fourteen-year-old memory gently reminded me, I had already begun.
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