It was early in the day for birding (unless you were the bird), and we were searching for autumn migrants. Migration has special resonance when one is about to hit the milestone of middle age. I had never gone birding before, but with a major birthday approaching in a few weeks, I see the day coming when I'll be flying south for winter, too.  We all met at the gates of a cemetery. I stood next to a woman with rings in her eyebrows. She stood next to some elderly couples, who stood next to the guide. He was round and compact, like a morning dove - or maybe a wood duck. I consulted my Audubon book for clearer identification, and while I was bent over it, the group started to move forward. It was like the start of a cattle drive.  Our guide strolled between tombstones, his hands clasped behind his back, looking up serenely. Most of us walk through the days with our heads down, avoiding sidewalk irregularities, dog production, and the eyes of others. But he looked up with certainty, and we followed him with hope.  The woman next to me clasped her hands behind her back. After a minute, I did, too. I was remembering something that had nothing to do with the task at hand. On the in- patient unit, when a patient is growing agitated, you never clench your fists or cross your arms over your chest. You fold your hands comfortably in front of you or behind your back, to show there are no mean intentions. Posture is powerful; it drives feelings. Strolling with my hands behind my back, I felt peaceful, priestly, full of knowledge I did not actually have.  Our guide used his binoculars lightly, like a pair of opera glasses. I had my father's World War II binoculars, and their weight around my neck almost sank me. I tried to use them lightly, too, but they clarified nothing. What had been a branch became a wall. What might have been a bird became a blob. My priestly, scholarly feelings disappeared. It was not the fault of the binoculars; it was mine.  Another memory arose: the very first class we had in medical school. It was about tissue identification, and most of the class was spent in front of microscopes. I would hunch over the eyepiece, fiddling with knobs, but the liver cells that sprang into sharpness for others never appeared for me. It was too late to admit I had no idea how to bring them into view.  Across the bench, my lab partner, who became an HIV researcher, must have noticed I was fiddling a little too hard. With great kindess and no judgment, his hands clasped behind him, he offered to focus my instrument. He twisted this and that, looked carefully, nodded, and stepped back. It would be crystal clear now. I put my eye to the eyepiece, and saw nothing.  In the cemetery, our guide stopped below a tree and pointed to the top branch. Two red-eyed vitreos. I raised the World War II binoculars without hope, and while I was fiddling, they flew away. So did the flickers, and the chippers in the Seven Suns Tree. They all flew away before they were seen.  We strolled toward a pond. It was covered with active specks, more migrants. My father had used his binoculars for years in a war-torn country, but the tool that may have saved his life was no help to me. The microscope had been no help, either. Looking up or down was equally unenlightening. Some people should just keep their eyes closed.  Our guide noticed something. "Over there," he said.  I started to raise the binoculars. "You don't need those," the woman next to me said. "Just look."  Sitting on the edge of a long branch, in plain sight over the water, was a great blue heron. He was big and clear, dignified and beautiful, and he wasn't going anywhere. He was there to be seen, pondering his existence, or his digestive needs. He was almost holy in his stillness.  Even without magnification, sometimes a long look and a clear view fall into place. Autumn cannot be avoided; neither can middle age. You migrate or stay put. You look up or down, back to memories or forward to milestones. You take your life and try to figure out what you were meant to do. Birds are just a little luckier than us that way.  For the moment, the heron was staying put. Actually, I flew away before he did. Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist. This article first appeared in The Boston Globe.