John Wiercioch
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Reflections on the Art of Living

Lucky

8/26/2020

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Maybe they’re related to the wildfires out west. The sunsets these last few days around these parts have been putting on quite a show. When I float in the evening, sunlight is bouncing off of the river surface onto the banks, where it dapples tree trunks and green foliage with a shimmering crimson golden glow. As the Earth spins, and the sun descends at times it seems almost to be playing illusionistic games with anyone watching. Maybe just for its own amusement, it will flash its mad skills with brilliant bursts that look for all the world like glowing torch fires amid what I know are wet roots and damp stones. Whether for someone or no one, seeing them makes me smile. I’ve always been lucky this way.


A bit further I floated by a young mom standing beside her young toddler. I interrupted them for a quick wave and then he was back at his task. Gleefully focused, clutching up rocks and tossing them in a stiff-armed motion that suggested he had just learned to throw things. Then delighting with a slight up-tip of his head and a braid smile, in seeing that each and every one he tossed made a Splash!—as if a bit of magic had just happened. Of course, it had. I’ve always been lucky this way.


As I reached the bridge near the end of my float, It wasn’t dusk yet but the half moon was conspicuously visible in the clear blue sky. I hung ten in it’s honor and then heard a gaggle of giggles and squeals up river. I could see a cluster of young bodies on the bridge, some racing across, some jumping in, then scrambling back up again for “just one more!” Six or seven youngsters, roughly aged ten to three were jumping from the left side, with a mom supportively watching from the bridge. As I carefully passed under the center to avoid a collision, I realized there were two dads in the water, encouraging them, and assisting to shore whoever needed help. I climbed out of my tube, and was standing in the water waiting for a couple of jumpers to clamber up the rocks to the bridge again. “This is the very last one!” I heard a dad announce, “we have to go!” 


The littlest one, Claire, was mustering the courage to jump with the  bigger kids. One helped her up onto the ledge, and the others all lined up on either side of her. “Come on Claire! You can do it!” She was all of 30” tall and standing on the low bridge wall put her 6-7 feet above the water—akin to me jumping from 20 feet up! I noticed her itty-bitty hands were shaking—from cold or fear or excitement or all the above? A few of the kids jumped in. One of the dad’s gently assured her she could do it—and that he was ready. A slightly taller girl took her hand, and all at once they leapt together. The remaining others all joined in a celebratory jump. Though Dad was ready to collect Claire, she appeared not to be troubled, smiling as she popped up from her courageous jump, then dog-paddling toward the boulders, where he lifted her up and onto the bank. We all smiled. I happily told her she was very very brave. I thanked the dad for bringing them out and into the river. “Yeah! Enough with the iPads and screens for a while!” he said. “They’ll remember this.” I enthusiastically agreed, and then told him I thought it was also great that he was playing in the water with them, and that they’d remember that even more. 


Just then a great blue heron flew over the bridge and us all, heading up river. I don’t know when circumstances become synchronicity, and maybe the heron was just looking for a new spot to find dinner, but these wise and wary birds sure seem to be in my sights lately, or me in theirs. I smiled and thought, I may never know which or why with certainty, but I am certain I’m lucky either way.

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Straddling Worlds on a Sunday Morning

8/26/2020

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I’m never sure what I’ll encounter on a float, which is part of the appeal. As I headed to the river on a balmy Sunday morning, following a rainy Saturday, surprises greeted me under Memorial Bridge where I set in. My friend TJ Anderson and a companion were playing an infectious beat on hand drums that cascaded and echoed wonderfully against the massive concrete arches. Another companion was elegantly flowing in a free-form dance. I hesitated, debating whether to hang, but decided since I had to work in the afternoon and regrettably had to attend to a few errands before that, I’d best continue my short trek to the river. The water was high, littered with leaves (a good type of litter—suggesting heavy rains or winds) and the current fairly swift. Since I’d spent the hour before weed-eating my magically-growing, untended, intentionally “gone wild” yard (mostly to appease the city code ordinance folks), I was hot and sweaty, so the cool waters felt delicious on my green-speckled limbs. 


Right from the outset, my spirit guide Great Blue Heron erupted from a nearby bank and alighted high in a tree a few hundred yards ahead. As I drifted toward it, I chirped my usual announcing sounds. When I was near, it used it’s powerful legs to leap from the towering perch, but instead of the usual flight out of view, this morning it veered in an arc directly over me, heading back to where it had been before my interruption. I felt content it seemed secure in my presence.


Seconds after experiencing this stunning sight, I noticed a trio of turtles on a log ahead. They were in perfect arrangement by size: the first over 12” diameter, the middle just under, the last one about 10”. Like a well-practiced synchronized swimming team, one by one they “plooked” out of sight into the water in the same sequence, the final fellow allowing me within 30 feet. 


As the currents ushered down river, a dragonfly burst into my periphery, seemed curious, began to hover, then follow along. After a few tentative landings on my tube, it eventually settled on my water shoe, and enjoyed exploring my sole (for whatever it is dragonflies are looking to find) for several minutes. 


It was interesting to witness the impressive, statuesque Great Blue Heron pulling itself skyward, seemingly aiming toward the sun; then the turtles, first catching the sun then diving downward, into the muddy depths of the earth; and then the dragonfly, which may spend years as a nymph in the mud and underwater, and then at maturity become the airborne creatures for which they are named. It was as if each animal straddled or was inextricably linked to two or three worlds: earth, water, and sky.   


Near the end of the float I came upon a red half-dome with a handle pointing upward, floating daintily in the water. I snatched it up, gave it a twirl, and decided it added a Dr. Doolittle-esque accessory to my usual floating couture. And so it all flowed in me as well, my earthbound body, hovering atop the water, using my snappy river-find to evade the atmosphere-penetrating rays of the nearest star.

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Hunting Bounty

8/23/2020

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The dwarf apricot tree I planted several years ago has often had a rough time. Seems most years here in southwestern Virginia, the spring puts it through challenges with cold blasts that affect the fruit. Despite this, every year it puts out the most gorgeous display of blossoms. They’re different than the peach tree, richer colored, their delicate pink hues enhanced with a lush magenta-accentuated center. But since they like to start showing their beauty in early March, snows and frost have been the primary challenge each year, as evidenced in the photo from a few years ago. So each year I’ve never had more than a couple of fruits, if any at all. 

This year, for the first time since I planted her, we had no late spring cold blast after the flowering. No struggling to cover the delicate flowers with sheets or plastic overnight while not knocking off or crushing blossoms. I’d pruned her (and the peach and pear) way back and they all responded to the care. Conditions for peach, apricot, pear, berries, tomatoes, fruits of all sort this year seemed to be ideal. There were easily 300 apricots that steadily grew from grape-sized to ping-pong ball to proper-sized apricot. As I waited out their ripening to sweetness, regrettably, I started noticing a brown rot at the base of some. Within a short few weeks over half were infected. The only remedy I found was to remove the infected fruits and discard them. The bountiful harvest was steadily shrinking. 

I hoped I might gain a few dozen, just a small basket. I noticed pokes and bite marks in some of the fallen fruit and accepted this; birds and squirrels occasionally want a taste too. But then one day as I was wistfully watching the fruit on the tree diminish, I noticed the local (large) groundhog hanging out at the trunk. He’d been around for months, putting on poundage apparently by munching on everything easily accessible that was not behind my little fenced in garden plots. I recall thinking, if there’s such a thing as an obese groundhog, I now have met him.

One morning, as I opened my back door, we both were startled: he was hanging four feet up in the branches of the apricot tree, fleshy fruit in mouth! For a split second, he cocked his head and looked at me like the kid with his hand in the cookie jar—except the look was more like your neighbor’s kid was in your house in your cookie jar—and then in a flash he scrambled down. I laughed aloud watching his “love handles” jostle as he raced across the lawn, looking for all the world like a mini-Jackie Gleason in a fur coat. Well that explained the girth; he’d been filling up regularly at the local dessert stop, enjoying the view from the balcony seating. I chalked it up to the perils of being an urban gardener. 

The pear tree fruits later. It also had a plethora of blossoms, and a few hundred fruit. Recent rains seemed to enhance their svelt but swelling pear forms. And then, a couple weeks ago I looked out my 2nd floor back studio window and there he was again!—in the pear tree, fruit in mouth! He has skills—he did not drop it when I shouted, nor when he clambered down to head for his den in the neighbor’s brambles. I’d had enough. I pulled out the Have-a-Heart trap, loaded a pear in it, and waited for a different harvest. Fortunately I was working near my home and could check on it. At lunch I found the trap empty and tripped shut, on its side, as if he’d tried to knock the fruit loose without entry. Or maybe he resented trying to squeeze his extra-large frame in it. I reset it, blocked it in place better, and went back to work. When I returned that evening, he was inside. I collected the cage, and drove to the nearby city park near woods bordering the river to give him a fresh start (illegal, I know—but so is theft). 

However, when I satisfactorily carried my precious cargo to a shady spot in the grass under a tree, and opened the gate flaps, he just lay there...I jiggled the cage to no effect. For a minute I thought, oh for fuck’s sake! My Have-a-Heart trap had given him a heart attack! I dumped his fat limp bod onto the grass (BTW he did NOT smell like apricot blossoms). Although a sometime namesake, I decidedly was NOT up for CPR. But fortunately I noticed he was still breathing. I left him in peace, and when I checked a bit later he’d moved on to the woods. 

And, I am very pleased to report, I did not see any more groundhogs the last few weeks. My guess is Big Hoss had scared all the others away. A seldom seen brown thrasher did peck into several of the pears, and possibly some skunk and/or squirrel snacking occurred. Nonetheless, today I joyfully collected about 25 pounds of pears and look forward to indulging in their sweet and juicy fruits, and sharing the harvest with a few human friends for a change.
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Full Circle

8/19/2020

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Recent heavy rains replenished our always gorgeous Roanoke River. Even a few days after, the currents are still moving fast, so my usual trip went a bit quicker. Along the way I caught sight of several plastic things lodged in newly fallen branches or crevices where the waters had been up higher than normal. I assume some trash that gets left along the banks is washed in when it rains hard, but am starting to realize with a good storm, even litter discarded into the streets may wash down the street sewers and end up in the river. It then slowly breaks into ever smaller bits, where it may eventually ends up in our oceans. So a bozo who tosses a Chik-Filet soda cup out their car window or a bozette who leaves a Mountain Dew bottle in the Appalachian mountains can still be credited with contributing to poisoning all manner of life in our oceans with micro-plastics. Which we also may, ironically but somewhat appropriately, get to eat when we have a meal of seafood.  Kinda brings it full circle, you might say. Small wonder we have health issues with our short-sighted approach to so many things.

In any event, I just hate seeing trash clutter up such beauty. Since I had an early start this evening and the current was swift, my float came to a close well before sundown. So I figured I’d grab a few bottles before getting out. The rains caused a few logjams of branches, which in turn become “nets” for other branches which then also corral floating plastics. I find it so satisfying to rid the trees and banks of plastic debris that even without being prepared with something to put the junk in, once one starts collecting it’s very had to let anything you see stay. 

I happened upon a fly fishing rod and it quickly became a perfect implement to snatch the “flood bags” —those remnants still hanging randomly up in tree limbs.  Within 30 minutes, just collecting along the banks of the last five minutes of the float, I elevated my seat in the tube by about 12”. A rough assessment: Twenty plastic bottles, two glass bottles, three aluminum cans, a pill container, one tennis ball, two flip flops, two kid’s toys, a rubber ball, one fly fishing rod, one Super Tough 3,000 psi 8 foot length of hose, innumerable fragments of plastic bags, sand bags, styrofoam cups, carry out boxes, etc. And all the while I get to clamber on rocks, poke at tree limbs, cool my heels in the river, lounge a bit in my tube in the sunshine on a fine evening after work, and basically, feel like a kid again.

Just to top off the evening, after I returned home, while walking through my backyard tube in hand, and randomly plucking some weeds from my mostly ignored vegetable patch, I was surprised when a small brown blob hopped!—I pulled another weed and was delighted to find a toad, regrettably a rarity in these days of fools spraying their lawns with chemicals. Seeing the little critter jumped my mind right back to when I had a pet toad as a ten year old. It hung out in the window well for a few years at our home. 

I’d sometimes feed it earthworms and watch it slurp them in inch by inch, until just a nib was sticking out of its mouth like a pointy cigar. I even found a way to hit but not kill —only gently stun— house flies (toads won’t eat dead food). I got thread from my mom, and had a lasso ready beforehand and then as the fly was waking up I would tie a thread to a leg. I’d hover the hapless victim like a bizarre miniature flying steer before my warty pal and reveled in watching his eyes catch sight, then focus, zero in, and all at once ZZAAP! and his amazingly long tongue would leave only an empty thread in the air. Now, where have I put my sewing kit?

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Rising Waters

8/15/2020

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Circumstances recently found me standing smack dab within these small rapids (the most severe ones on my usual neighborhood river float route), so I took the opportunity to shoot a few pix. If you didn’t know this spot, it’s hard to tell the scale of the elevation drop from this image. My guess is it’s about 18”-24” spread across maybe 20 feet. Which doesn’t seem like much, especially viewed from the bridge above. That’s barely a few rock steps on a mountain hiking trail. But as the bed within an old river, even when the water’s relatively low, it gains power exponentially. Especially if one is trying to stand in the perpetual rushing force of water. One quickly gains a very different, more profound appreciation for the power of natural forces. 

Right here, where I snapped this photo is one of the two times in over two hundred inner tube floats on this section of river where I’ve been flipped from my tube. It seems to have become just a bit more challenging after the last flood in April, possibly the flood upended and rearranged a few of the protruding boulders... 

A few weeks ago I was concerned about a friend floating over this dip. I was paying full attention to her (she managed the falls quite smoothly), as my tube hit the right rock at the right angle, and suddenly I was surprised to discover through clunking the back of my fortunately hard head on some equally hard rock at the river bottom, that I had flipped! I’ve since learned to choose to either avoid this short chute by paddling toward the smooth pebble beach area on the opposite side, or else be more focused as I ride these mini-falls. Having witnessed another companion braving this section careen upward and back down more severely than I thought possible without (whew!) flipping, in the future if I float with inexperienced friends, I’ve decided I’ll suggest pulling up to the beach and walking the few hundred feet beyond this spot.

Families and children often frolic in the bank where a rounded pebble beach area offers easy access.  The water there is under 12” for a broad stretch. Two weeks ago, as I was approaching here I saw some kids wading ahead of me, wandering toward the beach from upstream. Two went to the bank; one brazen four foot tall youngster didn’t. He meandered toward the cascades. His bare feet quickly lost their footing on smooth mossy rocks, his light frame was swept up, and he tumbled through the 50 foot section, screaming, bobbing up and then under, out of control. It was a red alert to me—I paddled fast as I could but by the time I reached the bank and hopped to run to him, he’d been pushed forward to a calmer section where his adult guardians raced to haul him in. He was very shaken, crying, and for sure banged up a bit. Thankfully, far as we could tell nothing was broken and he was mostly ok; at least I hope so. Luckily his young body was flexible and probably he was less harmed by not trying to stop himself.  

Good lessons all in all. The river is often serene and always beautiful, but also far more powerful than the strength of our relatively puny human muscles and delicate bones. We’re generally outfitted or buffered from these potent forces, mostly safe and comfortable and, especially within urban settings, disconnected from “unbridled” nature.  So much so it’s easy to lose track of the sheer power and dangerous aspects “civilized living” has largely contained and kept at bay. 

I suppose this may be related to why it’s so difficult for certain folks to fathom the very real and troubling challenges looming from climate change. Beyond the also very real PR brainwashing by those who stand to make profits from the status quo, it’s just hard to envision calamities on such a vast scale. Plus as a species, none of us relishes change, and (God forbid!) it may even require concerted human actions and a lessening of our sacred American individuality. However, as a few recent articles put it, COVID-19 is a light and temporary dress rehearsal for the global impacts of climate change. It’s certain to impact economies, national boundaries, immigration, food production, socialization, and every aspect of the fragile infrastructures we rely upon to keep our type of civilization afloat. And it will be far more relentless, erratic, powerful, and life threatening than COVID. To ignore it, to blindly proclaim it’s not coming, or boast we’ll be able to contain it, and/or that we “just can’t afford” to direct resources to change course now, all seem to me destined to cause far more suffering than acceptance and action. For sure there are transitions we can begin now to help mitigate it. 

Time will tell if we wait and allow a percentage of humanity to get violently tossed under in the coming decades (will we then act surprised despite years of warnings?), or if we have the sense and the will to redirect our world toward accessible, safer paths forward. Meantime, to me it seems it’s up to us to look out for each other; lend our hands as best we can locally, and recognize our interconnectedness globally. 
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Instants

8/13/2020

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It’s cool when you catch the right instant for an engaging photo. Lived instances steadily condense into days, moons, and years. Still some other really cool things happen over time. Like when your kids become adults, or you teach or mentor youth and students mature, or you befriend younger folks and get to see them blossom. The extra “cool” is when they share their knowledge and you get to learn stuff you probably would not have from hanging only with your peers. So it goes that after my float the other evening, I had a wonderful chat on the phone with my son Anselm. In a pause between more typical topics, he randomly tossed out “You can see the planet Uranus near the moon right now.”  

My inner city porch perch hasn’t quite allowed me to confirm it, but Uranus has been “visible to the naked eye” near our moon these last few nights. Anselm added more  to chew on: Uranus is 1.82 billion miles (roughly 2.9 billion km) from the earth. (!) We’re mostly lousy holding in mind a sense of numbers on this scale (besides maybe scientists, physicists, and perhaps engineers). But to try and give some perspective, many of us might know the star nearest Earth, (AKA the sun) is 93 million miles from us. You may even recall that “the sun is a mass of incandescent gas, a gigantic nuclear furnace” as They MIght Be Giants schooled us. Which puts Uranus about 20 times farther from the earth than we are from the sun. Sunlight, which we tend to think of as instantaneous, actually moves at 186,000 miles per second (roughly 300,000 km/second). Lastly he said: if you spot that distant planet Uranus shining like a little star near the moon, each bit of the sunlight that’s reflected off of it took 2 hours and 45 minutes to reach your eyes! Consider that!​

Which of course later, as I reviewed some pix I’d shot on my evening float, had my little brain swirling back around to earth. Because this also means sun rays are not instantly “here” either. Each instant of beautfiul warm sunlight reaching us, making magical sunsets and inspiring dawns, transforming rivers into glistening evanescent pools of silver and gold, even while traveling just shy of 670,000,000 mph, still took about 8 minutes and 20 seconds to get here! And I’m delighted to take the time to notice.
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The Clearing

8/8/2020

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Why am I so jazzed to float the river through my neighborhood? When this is your “backyard” it challenges my imagination to find something more beautiful. Saturday morning I went a bit later than my usual near-sunrise float time, about an hour later. Which of course was precisely when I was meant to go. ​

There was a beautiful three quarters moon beaming at me inbetween clouds in the southwestern sky as I walked to the bridge where I put in. I was surprised to hear my name break the silence. It was a neighbor, and we had a nice chat about our morning rituals—me floating, her walking. The overcast sky was not threatening, but gave a calming blanket to the early hour, the kind of mellow morning where if you looked out the window from your bed and knew it was a weekend, you’d roll back under the covers and relish taking a slow start.

Since I had no obligation to be working at a job site, I opted for a slow float and early in tackled another large eyesore of four months, a mangled heavy duty floatation/raft tightly wrapped up in a mulberry tree. As I headed to the bank I noticed a fisherman I’d encountered a few other mornings, casting and slowly wading in my direction. 

I hadn’t come prepared with implements so was left to poke at the stiff cluster with sticks. I loosened a small bit but could tell it wasn’t coming easily. I decided to climb my way up and tackle it directly. It was like a giant version of those little metal “Chinese Puzzles” we had to try and get apart as kids. The tough plastic dutifully resisted ripping. I was considering asking the fishing fellow if he had a knife I could borrow, but then realized I could snap some limbs and it began to loosen. A few careful flips and all at once the knotted morass let loose and with a Whoosh! plopped to the bank. I heard a loud “There you go!” from my morning colleague.

I collected the mass and began to trudge across the section of river, tube in one hand, trash in the other, with the intent to set it on the Greenway side for my removal later. A few steps in I was a bit stunned to realize it was unusually deep (near four feet!) in that very section, and for an instant wondered if my iPhone was tightly in its pouch, and securely in my pocket. But then, it was already too late, so I let go the worry and forded across. To my delight, the friendly fly-caster generously offered to take the bundle and toss it in his truck and drop it in the trash. I was most grateful and suggested even if he just got it near a trash bin by the parking lot, our excellent city crews had told me they will take things away from there. He and I’d seen each other several times as I floated past him other mornings, but barely exchanged names. 
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I was quickly impressed with Ryan, especially so when he told me that he knew all about good mountain streams in the region where he could cast and catch bigger bounty, but that since he took his job at Orvis, he felt he wanted to experience and really get to KNOW our local river. This stretch was right near his home, and he felt it was important to be familiar with her— not only for his work, but clearly because it was personally meaningful to him. “If what I can share gets a few more folks to come down here and check it out, maybe fish, or even just wade, or sit on the bank, maybe they’ll appreciate it more, respect it more, treat it better...” I whole-heartedly agreed and knew instantly our personal missions intersected. We had a great chat, and as he lugged a few more discarded items off the rocky beach, I put back in the water to continue floating. I’m happy I snapped a photo of him to verify and emphasize, there are many kind and caring people willing to take extra efforts and do the right things.

As I was carried downstream, I was stunned to see the sun break through the haze like a giant glowing butterfly. I stopped a couple more times to pluck bits of annoying plastic. (To be clear, my actions are no more noble than when anyone picks up an errant coke bottle or beer can on the sidewalk—And thank you for doing so!) But, after dislodging that large looming debris, perhaps also because I had consciously slowed down even more than usual, or maybe the humid cool, quiet morn had cast a magical spell that encouraged me to go inward, somehow I was aware I felt changed. 

The sun was soon shining brightly and everything seemed alive and refreshed for the rest of the float. Each of the next few times I pulled to the bank to snatch this or that bit of litter, after I did, I stood in the water for several minutes, and in those instances felt something potent. I didn’t sit on the bank, wasn’t floating; I just stood calf deep, with the cool current swirling against my legs, the warm sun on my skin, rushing water sounds and bird chirps cascading into my ears, all my senses attentive, but not thinking. I simply “took in” the presence of the river. Within this, I felt a strikingly powerful sensation: THIS is what I am to be doing, right here. It was a wordless knowing that lingers still. Maybe because of the soft symphony of so many physical sensations, it wasn’t quite the same as meditation. The only recent experience that’s touched my core in a similar way has occurred when in the arms of someone I loved. I really can’t explain it further. As I reached the endpoint of my float, two dear friends were passing on the greenway and we exchanged a brief but heartfelt and joyous greeting. Another reminder: we’re all interwoven and deserving of supportive friendships on our journey. 
Later that morning I met a friend for coffee on my porch and we spoke at length about all sorts of things, thorny and sweet. We agreed that we had to laugh at the ironies in life or we’d never stop crying. We talked of shifts in our “careers,” professions and relationships, and changes for each of us in our evolving sense of purpose as creative people. Certainly for me COVID has increased my desire to apply myself in a meaningful way before I’m gone. When I retold the tale above, she insightfully pointed out that the trash that had gnawed at me, deposited by a fierce storm and flood, hung and bound tightly, in my semi-awareness and yet passed by for months, was a great metaphor. Even the extra effort to disentangle it, get it loose, and the sudden cathartic release were loaded with symbolism. 

We all have things that intentionally or not end up trapped in our emotional psyche. Often we’re not aware of them, yet I think they still affect us. Even as we become aware, until we make the effort to see them, address them, dislodge them in some fashion that changes the dynamic, we’re destined to carry their weighty tangled burden within us. 

It was a team gesture clearing the trash from the waterway (myself, Ryan, the City crews) and this is another important metaphor—we need to do our own work but I also need to accept others’ offers of help). I suspect my deep appreciation and non-intellectualized sensing of the river’s presence, resulted from an awareness in some larger unconscious part me. Some aspect sensed I’ve been working to untangle and remove some blocks in my life, and it’s creating space in my being. It’s as if the ongoing, seemingly unresolved trials and efforts toward resolution of several months, suddenly, indirectly, were beginning to “clear.” Perhaps the confluence of a small symbolic accomplishment, followed by the unhurried quiet interactions in the water, bright sunshine glimmering on incredibly idyllic scenes, came together in some mysterious yet perfectly natural way, and opened the gateways for cleansing waters to flood my being. Although words fall short to describe the sensations, it was as if for a brief few moments, the restorative energies of the earth had an opportunity to seep deeply into my being and (unexpectedly) I suddenly felt utterly at peace.
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Reflecting on Intimacy

8/8/2020

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“Intimacy, says the phenomenologist Gaston Bachelard is the highest value. I resist this statement at first.  What about artistic achievement or moral courage, or heroism, or altruistic acts, or work in the cause of social change? What about wealth or accomplishment? And yet something about it rings true, finally—that what we want is to be brought into relation, to be inside, within. Perhaps it’s true that nothing matters more to us than that.

But then, why resist intimacy, why seem to flee it? A powerful countercurrent pulls against our drive toward connection, we also desire individuation, separateness, freedom. On one side of the balance is the need for home, for the deep solid roots of place and belonging; on the other is the desire for travel and motion, for the single separate spark of the self freely moving forward, out into time, into the great absorbing stream of the world. 

A fierce internal debate, between staying moored and drifting away, between holding on and letting go. Perhaps wisdom lies in our ability to negotiate between those two poles. Necessary to us, both of them—but how to live in connection, without feeling suffocated, compromised, erased? We long to connect, we fear that if we do our freedom and individuality will disappear.”    

~ Mark Doty, in “Still Life with Oysters and Lemon” 

This passage struck me deeply. I suspect I’ve struggled with precisely the issue (so elegantly articulated above) for years, but these COVID times have really thrown it into high relief. Perhaps to a degree artists, or better — “creative individuals” of every sort in any field — especially feel this challenge in our society. After all, we’re often trying to defy or move beyond norms, invent new paths, or at least spark them, and yet we need a grounding base in order to have a foothold from which to leap. 

Amid embracing this challenging aspect of life’s journey, how do we maintain our unique vitality while engaged in our community. More so, navigate a creative path with the limited hours in each day, as well as find all the necessary time for reflection and “filling the well” WHILE still being fully present and intimate with another, whether they are a companion, spouse, partner, or undefined friend?

Yet we (or certainly, I) long for and need both! Maybe one reason I enjoy being on this fluid road is because solid answers seem to slip through my grasp. Further, in this strangely necessary anti-social time, it becomes problematic to even live the questions, as Rilke famously suggested. So I treat myself to my “retreat/sanctuary,” the river, where I can set aside this and all issues, and, whether alone or with companions, am able to mostly just be in the moment. 

Neither the waters, the trees along the banks, nor the keen-eyed birds, nor boulders, nor occasional leaping fish need me. I find that so long as I present no threat to them, and especially when I am “present”,  they accept my presence. I’m appreciated for who I am, without judgment nor the burdens of expectation. I’m granted the freedom to be myself, and accepted no matter how I make that manifest. It’s an unspoken, immeasurable gift. I think it’s a great part of my attraction to what has become for me a joyful and affirming, meaningful ritual. Don’t we all hunger for a safe space, devoid of judgments and criticism, where we can just BE our selves, even if we are unsure what that may look like? Floating, I feel deeply connected—dare I say— “loved.”

If there’s a way to pay this gift forward, perhaps it’s to offer the same to others when I’m back on solid ground, immersed in the endless dramas of daily existence.  To try and offer others the room to be themselves, crucially recognizing that by definition it is an ongoing process of discovery for us all.  As a lived creative act, part of the honor of being a trusted witness obliges my own patience and silence. My respectful acceptance nurtures room for creativity and connections. 

And so perhaps with a partner, like the herons who accept and watchfully respond to my presence but never direct it, by offering space and the freedom to discover and ever re-create one’s self, we can allow intimacy to grow and blossom.
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Adaptation is the Natural Order

8/5/2020

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Picture
​Dawn, Roanoke River, August 5. We finally have had some restorative steady rains and the river has refilled a bit. It also has made it so muddy with sediment, It’s made it look like images I’ve seen of the Mekong in Vietnam. It’s all part of the natural ongoing processes of renewal. I floated on it yesterday evening and saw no herons of any type. When I pulled out, a youngster was fishing off the bridge and asked wide-eye and hopeful “Didja see any fish?” I had to tell him “No, I usually do, but the river’s so muddy right now, I couldn’t see anything.” “But,” I assured him, “They’re down there somewhere!” 

Prompting me to consider how challenging it must be for the herons and fish eaters like kingfishers to locate their meals after heavy rains. I suppose they head to more shallow creeks, perhaps switching up their diet with a different menu of other live options. But on this gloriously cool morning, I was delighted to first encounter one Great Blue, poking about on the small rocky beach before the other bothersome and loud humans arrive. I watched it take flight on its vast wings, lumbering slow and steady into the morning breeze, up river behind me. It’s rising in the image above. A little farther along the float, as I eased back in my tube, I greeted what I’m pretty sure must be its mate, confirmation the natural order of things was easing back into place.
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    ​John's Blog

    Writing offers an opportunity to clarify my thoughts and feelings. Often these relate to my art and may offer insights about my work. I learn from engaging with others and welcome comments. 

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