There’s a heron I used to see almost every morning. It stood in the same shallow patch of water, always facing slightly to the left. It never looked rushed or restless, just still — completely still, like the act of waiting was a kind of knowing. I remember watching it once for almost fifteen minutes. It didn’t move. And yet, somehow, it didn’t feel like nothing was happening. It felt like it was doing exactly what it needed to do.

I’ve thought about that heron a lot over the years, especially in the moments where I feel like I should be further along — in my art, in my life, in all the invisible timelines I seem to measure myself against. There’s this pressure that builds, a quiet kind of panic, like I’m falling behind or missing something. But then I remember the heron, standing in place, watching the water move around it. Not in a hurry. Not uncertain. Just… ready. Trusting that the right moment will come, and that when it does, it’ll know what to do.

Birds are good at that — at waiting without fear. At trusting the invisible shifts in the wind and the light. They don’t second-guess their instincts or panic when they haven’t taken flight yet. They just stay until it’s time to go, and then they go without hesitation. I think there’s something in us that remembers how to live that way too, but we bury it beneath to-do lists and timelines and the constant need to prove we’re doing enough.

That’s one of the reasons I keep painting birds. It started as something visual — I was drawn to their shapes and softness, to the movement of wings — but over time it became something more emotional and personal. When I paint them now, I’m not just painting a subject, I’m painting a way of being I want to return to. A quiet trust. A kind of freedom that isn’t about escape, but about alignment.

Some of the birds I paint are in motion, wings open, reaching for something unseen. Others are resting, almost hidden in stillness. But none of them are trying to prove anything. None of them are stuck. They’re just in their season. And I think there’s something beautiful about that — about the idea that rest and waiting are part of movement, not separate from it.

We don’t talk enough about the value of staying still. About how timing isn’t always something we can force. Sometimes the best thing we can do is wait — not with anxiety, but with openness. With trust that the right moment will find us. That we’ll feel it in our bodies. That we’ll move when we’re meant to, and not before.

This blog isn’t here to teach you anything. It’s just a space to remember. A quiet place to breathe a little slower. To be still for a moment and listen for what you already know but maybe forgot. And if one of the birds I’ve painted speaks to you — if it reminds you of something true — I hope you keep it close. I hope it brings you back to that part of yourself that still trusts the wind.

You can see the full collection here, if you’d like. They’re available as originals and fine art prints, and each one carries a little of that stillness with it.

And if you’re not ready to move yet — that’s okay. Neither is the heron.

You can explore the full collection here → [link]

If these reflections resonated, I invite you to linger a little longer. Subscribe below, and let each new post find its way to you — like wings overhead, quiet and steady, arriving in their own time.

 

Thanks for reading!

Laura Wilkins