Chaos Witch Rising

The trail was muddy that day, wet from recent snow and rain. I only hesitated a moment at the threat of damp socks before forging ahead—consequences be damned.

I nestled into the rocks along the riverbank and found myself deep in contemplation. All the overwhelming loss these past few months: family, friends, my job, literal feeling in my right pinky from an injury. It didn’t make me feel numb. I felt alone.

I rummaged through the slate-colored rocks to find a tiny white pebble. I told myself that I am never alone when I am in nature. And I threw the tiny stone into the river.

A minute later, two Canadian geese flew side-by-side upstream. Then, one lone mallard, face beaming green.

And I cried. I hung my head and wept. It was all that I had left, all I could do in that moment as the faces of loved ones, a life I once had, hit me in waves.

I looked up again to find a swarm of white-throated swifts dancing in the wind. Must have been 20 of them, gliding sharply to the right, up high, then down, over to the left. And I wondered…could I even remember the last time I danced?

My eyes traced downward with a sense of shame.

Suddenly, a large shadow flew over me, nearly startling me. My eyes followed the movement above the river to find two large wings spread wide. I guessed perhaps a peregrine falcon, but as it turned its body so gracefully into the wind, I could see her neck. It was a Blue Heron.

I knew there was a rookery on the north end of the valley but had never seen one down here.

She glided in front of me and perched atop the rocks built up in the river’s center. I had a perfect view, could see her feathers blowing in the wind. I forgot to breathe for a second.

Blue Herons have always symbolized grief to me. Their energy feels ancient, stoic, wise. They possess a graceful majesty that can only exist within a life that truly knows loss.

Just the sight of her reassured me. I am where I’m supposed to be.

Turning 40 in February was somewhat strange. Not because I instantly felt different but because it’s always a little daunting to close the chapter on a decade.

I now know that I’m too old to be a Maiden, too young to be a Crone. But I also don’t feel like a Mother. I’ve never married, never had kids—choices I don’t regret, though it can feel like uncharted territory identity-wise. The closest I came to motherhood was with my kitties. I lost Kitter in 2022 after 16 years, and I lost Cleo this past November after almost 20. Now, the house is empty. No one to take care of.

Maybe I’m pregnant with writing. Forever awaiting the next contraction, next “push” of inspiration. Sometimes I think I’ll never be able to birth what’s inside of me. Perhaps I’ll never be “ready.”

I’ve been practicing Yoga Nidra recently, and it’s been really helpful. The space for the practice is called your “nest.” It’s a space for quiet, stillness, for connection, embodiment. A home that I can always return to. A home inside myself.

As I continue to navigate difficult times, I know this for certain—I am not a Maiden. I am not a Mother. I am not a Crone.

I am a Blue Heron.

I have a nest to call Home.

For now, I remain in a place of quiet stillness. A place to remember how to take the next step, and then the next. And eventually, one day, dance again.