I’ve been saving a clipping from our local newspaper about a woodcarver who donated a sign showing his version of a ‘crane’ to our nearby park. This was in tribute to what he believed was this bird’s habitat. Well…we have diligent and informed bird watchers in this area since Morro Bay, California, is a bird refuge.

There was an immediate outcry by them to let the woodcarver know that cranes don’t live here…but great, white EGRETS do!

I can sympathize with the artist’s discomfort. As a matter of fact, several years before when I first moved to Morro Bay, I was raving to my new neighbors about my numerous encounters with the beautiful white cranes. They lost no time correcting me, that I must be referring to egrets.

Their indignation made my mistake seem like a major offense against all egrets and that I was obliged to make amends. To write (right) the wrong, a poem emerged which seemed to allay my guilt and then was filed away.

Somehow the woodcarver’s gaffe inspired me to bring out my poem and go public. For better or verse, I share my original:

Owed To An Egret…
An Apology

Dear bird, this ode to you is owed to you.

Now, I cannot leave this confession without including my reflections following this experience. Having a predisposition to see the sublime in the ridiculous and vice versa, I also find my tongue likes to be in my cheek but also needs to wag with great seriousness.

It was inevitable that I would ponder: “What’s in a name?” Even before I was introduced to William Shakespeare’s “he who steals my good name, steals that which does not enrich him, but makes me poor indeed” –even before that, I was shocked to learn that our Native Americans were not consulted about what they wanted to be called, but were named “Indians” by misguided explorers who thought they had landed in India!

I have also learned that in the mysticism of the Kabala, a person’s name contains his destiny. In human beings the name seems to become the “self” so that my friend, when asked who she is, promptly answered “Sarah!”

Even more extreme that Shakespeare, to whom the loss of a good name is only impoverishing, taking Sarah’s name away could deprive her of her very existence. Do we go so far, as in the case of the egret, as to believe his life depends on correctly identifying him? Have I become ridiculous?

The carver as well as the rhymester, meaning no harm, have been treated to the world of distinctions and differences. And the egret, by ANY other name, is still a beautiful bird and unimpressed by name calling.

-Hilda Heifetz