The White Egret

The white egret slowly steps the brushy perimeter of the island’s desolate wash. I clomp down the boardwalk, my dorky water shoes slapping the planks. The egret, who had been grazing, lifts her head. I halt, listening to what she has to say:

“Why this barren mud in the center of a lush Island?” she asks. “All around me, wind-flattened grass and white- throated blossoms and bushes sprouting yellow thrive. Life, making a way, its way.

“Except here. This mud flat could be the flaking shingles of a desert, curving upward at the edges. A failure to thrive, you might say, or a just plain failure. Beautiful, maybe, to those who can find beauty in the ugly, but not to anyone else.

“What does my presence in the flat tell you of?

“Water.

“On days when you are not to be seen, water gathers here as a pond. This is not a failure. It is a river bed. The flattened grass was not bent by the unceasing wind. Flowing water pressed it this way and that. Water forced the white trumpets and yellow blossoms into flower. Water.

“I am the evidence that unlocks the mystery of what you are seeing, but misunderstanding. Without me, you would leave this place misguided, carrying a memory of blight. You think you can quickly absorb and catalogue and parse into truth, but you cannot.

“You

“Need

“Time

“To See.

“You need me, and others need you. You are a marker in this world. Evidence of truths that stretch far beyond you. Without you, a piece of what we depend on to make sense of our lives would be missing.

“Value yourself. Value me. See where the water has been so you will notice it coming again and know that, without it, there would be no life.”

The white egret bends a knee and continues on her way, her gospel lesson finished.

(Written on a contemplative writing retreat on Ship Island, Mississippi)