Mary Lou Sanelli
There are rookeries amidst us that are hardly a secret. But I’m not going to say where this one is. I like to imagine there are still hidden places made of twigs and moss and leaves where birds can nest without our interference.
It’s amazing how many people have never heard of a rookery or don’t know the meaning of the word. I didn’t know before I moved to Seattle. And my sister thought I was talking about a kitchen appliance. But once I stood beneath one, it was like giving myself up to an otherworldliness far beyond what I thought I was entitled to see―that sense of breathtaking privilege that is such an incredible feeling.
So when I heard that a particular heron rookery is for sale, I felt nothing but fear for the herons. My god, I thought, can’t we leave anything alone. I also thought about all the promises that could be made between the owners and buyers to allay the conservationists, only to be broken later.
I wondered. I asked around. I waited.
I took a long walk from my place to the rookery, trying not to think of what could happen. But I was worried. Because I know, of course I know, construction could win out. This war on nature is harsher and harsher as the years pass. Just thinking of what could become of the rookery, I feel weary, worn-out, like my wool rug fading over time so that you can’t even tell the dull gray was once a vivid blue.
I also know that I am such a hypocrite.
Because I live in a condo development―a controversial one at that―that rose to command acres and acres where people used to walk so that the field could nurture them though long wet winters and lend shade under the horse chestnut tree in summer.
Even now, when I tell certain people where I live, I can see it in their eyes: that my home is in the first housing project that changed the character of my neighborhood for good. Never mind the new condos everywhere since, the leaf-blowers clearing away any possible shelter for the wrens, and the new round-abouts that made my friend Grace say, “we all need something to roll our eyes at.” I don’t remember how the subject of my address came up in the grocery store one day, but a woman with gorgeous grey hair and gorgeous clothes waved a hand at me and turned away leaving me dejected among the bulk food bins.
A few months passed and on a warm September evening, I walked again to the rookery. In the open, the day was still hot, but where I stood the sun was blocked by tall maples, and the entire street was cool. I stood under the rookery, taking in the sound of wingbeats and loud squawks and the elaborate nests built to shelter against windstorms and eagles and ospreys and rodent predators. To see a heron lift its long, sleek neck and flap its wings is enough to make me gasp. More than once I’ve had a creak in my neck for days after.
A couple walked by and before I could tell them what I was staring at, they told me they’d been watching the rookery for years. Another man walked up from behind and passed by without ever looking up at the herons. Or from his phone. But that did not keep me from greeting him (I can’t believe my own childishness sometimes). “Hello,” I shouted. No response. The couple laughed. I laughed. I told them how I can feel totally out of sync with the present state of public behavior, just to be able to say the words aloud, I guess. They smiled and walked on.
I bit my lower lip and thought about how sick I am of talking about it, of bringing it up, of not being able to accept the constant site of people being present but elsewhere, of cell phones viewed at every restaurant table, of suffering some sort of cultural embarrassment for what wallet-sized computers have done to the face of the world, for believing their addictive intension has made the world a far less human place, and no one is meant to be less human. And the worst part is that I know that when I talk about it, I sound just as boring to others as I do to myself, and that is the surest sign that it’s time to let it go. And move on.
Sometimes you just have to move on.
When I finally find the nerve, I call the real estate agent who listed the rookery property. Even before I know what she’ll say, I know what she’ll say: It’s private land with a view of the harbor. It’s worth a lot. It will eventually sell. If not this year, then next.
I can’t bear to think what the herons will do if their trees are felled to make room for another luxury home. And if I do let myself think about it, I see stunned versions of themselves frantically searching for a new stand of trees. And sure, undeniably, YES, I know I must also accept this as what the world is now, like it or not, and get over it, move on; not take it as something personal, even if I just don’t know if I can.
It’s useless to sit here waiting for my phone to ring.
All I can think to say is that maybe there is something good about this terrible feeling ― that it’s never bad to remember what really matters.
Mary Lou Sanelli's newest title is In So Many Words: Three Years, Two Months, One Me, nominated for a 2025 Washington State Book Award. She works as a speaker and a master dance teacher. For more information visit www.marylousanelli.com.