After an frustrating afternoon trying to migrate files from my old computer to my new laptop, I was confused and angry. Consulting the help menu was no help at all, and calls to tech support left me feeling even more discombobulated as the impatient phone techie rattled off instructions way too fast for me to jot them down. Hopelessly resigned to emailing myself the data in a slew of attachments, I shut down both machines and escaped to clear my mind by taking a walk in nature.

As I ambled through a quiet neighborhood toward a bike path that was once a railway track, I found myself thinking black thoughts and tried to lift my spirits by looking around for something to appreciate. After many rainy days, the sky was robin's egg blue and the air was sweet, and just noticing that made me feel somewhat better.

Heading toward San Francisco Bay, I climbed the hill beside the abandoned Southwestern Pacific Railroad building to the paved trail and turned around for a moment to take in the solitary splendor of Mount Tamalpais, "the sleeping lady." Behind her the sun was slipping away, tingeing the deepening sky with golden light. In a nearby oak, a murder of crows broke out in raucous argument.

Smiling at their amusing cacophony, I walked along to where the scrubby acacia, blackberry and anise plants bordering the track give way to marshland. I stopped to admire a great egret soaring overhead as it landed on the uppermost branch of a redwood tree which arced downward under the big bird's weight. Its brilliant white form stood out against the dusky blue sky, and a full moon shimmered above its shoulder. The placid scene softened the tension in my neck and calmed the agitation in my mind. Tears of gratitude wetted my cheeks at my good fortune to live in these glorious surroundings.

Both the egret and I stood stock still, observing each other with pure regard until it flew off. I walked on, and soon heard the flapping of wings above my head as a night heron swooped by so near that I felt the air moving to make way for its descent into the marsh. A gap in the reeds allowed me a clear view of the blue-grey bird while still remaining somewhat hidden. It had a rounder darker charm than the sleek elegance of the egret, but it too held my gaze unwaveringly, as if bonding with me to relieve my funk. I waited again until my avian companion took flight, calling out with a squawk that sounded like, "Walk! Walk! Walk!"

So I did, to the bench where the path meets a curved bridge over a canal. I sat to watch as the western sky turned royal blue and the mountain became a flat black silhouette against it. As streaks of clouds turned blood orange, I found myself wondering if these birds might have a message for me.

I rose to leave, but stopped when another night heron landed on the utility wires just above me. Was this another bird, or the same one making sure I'd gotten its communication? The air grew colder as we contemplated each other.

Soon a couple approached with their young child and dog. "Look," the man said, pointing upward, "a night heron." Although the child babbled and the dog jumped and barked, the bird stayed put, its eyes locked on mine. I felt as if we understood each other's nature and our mutual connection to the spirit within everything. But that thought seemed glib in the power of that moment.

By the time the family moved on, the sky was sapphire and lights twinkled in the houses on the distant hills. When they moved out of earshot, I asked the heron aloud, "What are you trying to tell me?"

Again it flew off, crying, "Walk! Walk! Walk!" and I heard a voice inside urging me to follow my heart. "First you walk," it said. "Baby steps. Even if you stumble, you learn. Then you fly."

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Suzanne Gold (BA, MA in psychology) is a personal and spiritual counselor in California. Also an award-winning vocalist and songwriter, she once sang the National Anthem for the San Francisco Giants at Candlestick Park. Suzanne works with individuals, couples, families, and small groups in person or by telephone. Her email address is {email Suzanne@SuzanneGold.com}Suzanne@SuzanneGold.com{/email} © copyright 2005 by Suzanne Gold.

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