Sunday, April 28, 2019

Three turtles and a drift log



The air was warming into spring. The sky draped on out to the horizon, white wisps in between the folds of light gray appearing nearly about to part. It was the middle of the afternoon and I had some time, but no intention.  Looking down from the levee, I saw several bumps on a log near the river’s edge. I made my way down a steep gravel pathway and as I got closer to the water, I saw that there were three turtles just resting on the log. And then as I got closer still, each turtle slipped silently into the water.

And then, there I was. By the river. I found my own drift log to rest on.

Part of the log had been burned by fire some time ago. Then the river had picked it up and carried it downstream. And over some additional unknown amount of time, the water had smoothed and shaped the charred wood into the natural work of art I was sitting on.

You might say that the drift log was the work of time.

I appreciated the textures and patterns, the muted coloring. Weathered wood. Grain and char. I took some pictures with my camera. And then I sat.

I often want not to think so much. I try to simply be in a place in time. Not asking questions or looking for answers. To be a little more like a turtle.

As I sat more like a human, I occasionally saw a turtle nose bobbing in the small ripples near my log. I watched the river flowing past. The fast, smooth surface over the deep pool below the Bowersock hydropower plant swirled into curls and eddies. Downstream, deep water became shallow water, pushing the river up into broken lines of low waves.

Reflected gray sky and muddy brown water in the ever moving and unending small waves and ripples turned into mesmerizing patterns. It all happened too quickly for my brain – and yet the patterns were beautiful within the workings of momentary time.

But if my human mind was not coming to rest, it had begun to drift.

Three herons stood spaced apart along the edge of low limestone island in the middle of the river. Necks stretched tall, they simply stood there watching as time and the river passed them by.

Farther down the bank, a handful of blackbirds perched in a tree. Two flew over and touched down on a strand of barbed wire on the fence around Bowersock. And seconds later they were gone.

To be easy. To be in the world within the reach of my senses. To be within time. What I want is to be here.

The log was comfortable enough as I straddled it, riding down the rocks, never quite reaching the water. Earth, sky, water, and fire. Patterns. A little time and attention.

And so I waited. For what? The river is always the same and never the same. In any case, it would soon be time for me to head for home for supper.

I thought about Otis Redding. I tried to sing his song, forgetting most of the words. I remembered this much:

I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Watchin' the tide, roll away
I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time

Who’s to say what is wasted? And what is there to keep? After spending an hour or so by the river, that time would surely be gone.

I think of time as a river. But the metaphors will only take you so far.

There were three turtles.

The log I sat on had been burned by fire and then in the drifting downstream, the surface of the log had been shaped and smoothed into a work of natural art.

I watched the river drifting by.

And then I slipped silently away.









Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Melancholy in a glass


This story might not be as dreary as it sounds. But maybe it is. There's only one way to find out. It all began one day in February - a month with no good reason to exist if there ever was one ...

Melancholy in a glass - a podcast ~ 10 min.