My roots grew—at least in part—in water. 

 

Mom and Dad took my younger sister and me on weekend outings on the Wapsipinicon River. Our green flat-bottom boat wasn’t fit for tubing or skiing, but it was perfect for the four of us to putter about the main channel in search of fish. Dad would have preferred the silence of a solo trip, but he endured our chatter and tangled lines, threading new worms on our hooks while somehow trying to fish himself.

 

When our bones ached from too much stillness, and our stomachs grumbled, Dad maneuvered toward the nearest sandbar. We clambered out for a stretch and a light lunch of chips and sandwiches. While my sister played in the sand, I scoured the shore in search of treasures—bird feathers, shells, and river rocks. When Mom took the lid off the cookie bars, we knew our lunch break was nearly over. With chocolate smeared mouths, we got back in the boat.

 

Even the noisiest of colonies has its moments of calm, and ours was quietest after lunch. Bellies full and content to be back in the boat, we let the afternoon sun lull us into a reverie. We slipped around a bend in silence. And so it was in the midst of a daydream that I saw her—a great blue heron standing near the shore. She stood as tall as I sat, my hazel eyes locking with her bright yellow ones for a fleeting moment. I lost myself in the dark centers of her eyes, falling into that sudden, endless space. Mom caught her breath and whispered, “Girls, look!”

 

The heron took off then, expressing her annoyance with a “frawnk, frawnk, frawnk” as she flew down and around the next bend. In late fall, when the Wapsipinicon threatened to hold its secrets under a thick layer of ice, we knew she would fly far south in search of her meals. For now, we were the competition.

 

While the family speculated about her comings and goings, I sat in silence, wishing I could follow her to a quiet cove, feel the sandy river bottom under my feet, and wrap myself in a cloak of feathers.

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Our sighting of that single heron was only a passing note in a far older song. Along this same river, and many others across Iowa, herons have returned for countless generations, their colonies keeping time with the seasons.

 

I have often found myself wandering far afield, traveling to other states in search of some place better—wilder, quieter, cleaner. While those other places have their magic, Iowa is the language I know best. Its land and water are where my roots grow deepest.

 

In the heron’s reflection, I glimpse something of myself—rooted, restless, and always returning.