Henson Creek

The rushing waters of Henson Creek were misty. Above them was a watery haze, and the liquid that flowed through the gleamy rocks was buckling, swerving, mellowing and then set on fire again as it bent with the dips and swerves of its bed. The air was cool as we walked to the river’s edge. I watched Keiti (S.B.’s 12 year old lab-boxer mix) sniff the ground along the riverbank, and dip her pink tongue into the coolness of the water. I wanted to drink from its lushness too, but then thought better of it, for sure it would make my human digestive system sick. I felt a resentment rise up and a longing. When CAN we be able to drink straight from the rivers and creeks that run around us again? I suspect never, or not for a very long time. It took just over 100 years to completely pollute these waters with God-knows what forms of man-made chemicals and minerals meant to stay deep in the earth. Barring a miracle (which I keep open to as a possibility) it would take at least twice that long to amend what we have done.

S.B. was looking on the ground at some rocks as I followed Keiti towards a narrow trail along the water’s edge. The brush around us grew thick and more jungly. I felt transported to Hawaii, as the air was moist and warm and sweet, and all around us there was an illuminated greenness that the sun shone through. I could see the veins inside every leaf and the sparkling of every drop of mist from the noisy creek.

And then we stopped a bit upstream from where I could see S.B. was still crouching. The waterways converged up there, and swirled around a little islet where a tall lumbering tree—I do not know the name of it—sprawled, drooping its thick branches towards the water, as if constantly blessing it. In some spots the water was no deeper than the rocks it flowed around. The sight gave me hope, made my blood swirl in kind in a rush. I felt an infusion of raw energy.

God’s country. Here the signs of our contamination are ever subtle--a tiny candy wrapper buried beneath the fallen leaves, undrinkable water tainted by unknown sources. And still, nature at this place calls out.

Breathe! Breathe me in!

 

photo by dpreview.com on Google Images

RUBBER DUCKIES

Dozens of little rubber duckies float down the South Fork of the Gunnison River as S.B. and I watch them go by from the bridge on the north side of town.

Lake City, Colorado. July 27, 2013.  We have taken an hour off of work at the Texan Resort (his family’s business, which we are in our second summer season of managing) to watch the annual spectacle known as the “Ducky Derby,” a highlight event of the summer tourist season in this pea-size Rocky Mountain town.

I watch swaths of yellow ride the rapids of the Gunnison in clumps of 3 and 4, perma-grins on their chubby faces, the tops of their heads adorned with tiny sailor hats. On top of those painted-on hats, numbers had been painted on as well in thick black ink to indicate tickets individuals had bought earlier that week. It is a race to the finish and prizes will be handed out for the first, second and third place winners as well as the fortunate ducky who came in last. Lone floaters race by as well, their rubber sailors caps and bright orange beaks like light beacons amidst the glum, grey afternoon. Further upstream a few of them have gotten caught in the debris along the riverbank. Their tiny bodies come alive as they helplessly thrash about in the river reeds wrapped around them like octopus tentacles.

There is a message here, I think to myself. Duckies by the dozens come around the bend, more in clumps, more lone rangers, even more getting caught in the weeds as the crowd above them looking down from the bridge in the rain hoop and holler, moan and cheer.

Meanwhile, the duckies continue to smile.

UPDATE

Its been a while my friends, so here’s the latest in a very compact nutshell. In November of 2010, I jumped ship in Valencia, Spain after a life-changing voyage on the HERACLITUS that, in total, lasted almost nine months. I finished my master’s thesis, got the MFA and begun the inevitable scratching of one’s head that transpires after one receives a rather abstract advanced degree in a depressed economy. Well, now I can put the words “MFA” after my name…yoohoo! For a nano-second, I plunged into the search for some kind of university teaching work to no avail. Then in November 2011, I received additional training in life coaching and now have a small p/t clientele whom I coach in time management, goal setting and book writing (see my coaching website and corresponding blog at www.asyourword.com). I love this work!  At the same time, I also began in earnest the process of novel writing which I promptly abandoned in the face of setting up this new business. Now, a little under one year later, I am  taking it up again (and subsequently dealing with all the guilt of not working on it all these months). Oh yeah, and in two weeks, I leave for Taos, New Mexico, where I will be graced with steady work for a while and a little time to regroup, resettle, and push the reset button….

And in the middle of it all, I met S.B. Could he be THE ONE? And does being with THE ONE have to be so darn confusing? At any rate, what is clear is that I would like this one to be for “the long haul” and I think I have shed for a while the external wanderlust that has taken me all over the world and back…and am now packing my bags to step into a more internal/eternal journey. Being with S.B. for the last 16 months has helped me to grow (ie grow up) in leaps and bounds.  Our relationship has forced me to look at my own patterns, impatience, anger issues, basically the whole enchilada. Is it worth it? You bet! And so it goes, the endlessly-meandering path that one calls life…