It’s been very challenging trying to accept decisions of our elected leaders and how their very consequential actions of the next few weeks will affect lives in America for the next couple of generations. Especially so when I feel it will do so in ways that will restrict and remove hard-won freedoms, and crucial safeguards for both our democratic republic and the environment.​

I feel conflicted: powerless to change the trajectory of the immediate future; impassioned to work to improve the near future and secure the more distant one; and aware that all of these concerns are pretty inconsequential within the vastness of the universe. 

I know so much of these feelings are “in my head” and the only remedy I know is to get out. Literally, get out of the house and BE in some more than human-made space. I’m so fortunate to live where I do where contemplative green spaces abound. So as a morning, pre-online, rejuvenating tonic, with minimal effort I head out to take some in. In no time I’m on the Greenway path, bordered by hundreds of tress, adjacent an ancient waterway. My breathing adjusts to the rhythm of my stride in the crisp air. My unsettled mind settles inward. 

A couple of errant scraps of litter end up in my hands. I encounter a tall robust woman with a small dog who I’ve seen before, both on the greenway and in the neighborhood where I worked all summer. I recall overhearing her speaking another language—Russian or Polish? She asks. We exchange names and smiles, a few words, then part. An older gent approaches and carrying a handful of discarded plastic bags. I smile and say we’re on the same mission. He chuckles, thanks me, then graciously offers to take my small debris collection off my hands. I cross paths with a few other early sojourners and we nod in silent appreciation of the glorious dawn.

Almost unconsciously I wander through freshly cut tall weeds, well off the path, down toward the river‘s edge. Within seconds a mesh sand bag caught ten feet high in a tree branch by the floodwaters last spring, catches my eye. I assess if it’s accessible, but within a few slippery steep steps can sense the foliage-covered land drops downward so quickly, even if there is solid land, I won’t be able to reach it. But then underfoot I see some broken limbs. I find the right one and with just a couple well-placed pokes the bag drops and I’m able to lift it into my grasp. I toss the stick and just then, through the small clearing in the trees along the bank, a majestic great blue heron glides slowly past following the river only a few feet above the water. I shake my head and smile. 

A few minutes’ stroll and I’m on the low water bridge. I cross, climb down the bank, and crouch on a dry rock just above river level. I’m gazing at the immense beauty of the fog lifting off the water as rays from a star 93 million miles away heat up the air and encourage it to rise. I watch my own breath as the water ripples softly. My body and being warmed by the scene and yet another synchronistic heron encounter. The tips of green foliage gently wave. Suddenly I’m filled with a sense the only thing to do is to sincerely use my energy toward what feels right in each moment, because we’re never really in control beyond that. The earth will survive, life will go on, and we’re all both utterly insignificant and immeasurably integral to it all.

We all respond to the death of someone who inspires us, even if the death is expected and we admire them only from a distance, in our own ways.  By all accounts RBG was a remarkable intellect, and a kind, compassionate and generous person. It’s an especially sad thing to lose someone who so embodied grit and vitality yet retained such a loving touch. I heard about several personal experiences where she went out of her way to assist someone with non-public, sincere gestures of tenderness and support, simple acts likely never visible to others but felt deeply by the recipients. 

I have several wonderful friends who were yet again voluntarily facilitating and manning a plastic recycling event. It evolved out of an informative and helpful FB group called “Sustainable Roanoke.” It has become an actionable effort because our city and its recycling receiver cut back on accepting all plastics—even as we continue to accumulate them from food stuffs and elsewhere. It’s perhaps a small drop in our seas of plastic issues, but I fervently believe the little things matter. (To be fair, our county govt. is acting even less responsibly than the city, to no one’s future benefit). I considered assisting but felt it best right now to stick with my own project and marshalled forward with my Saturday morning plan. 

For months I’ve floated past a looming black synthetic morass wrapped tightly around a large sycamore trunk on the banks of the river, close to the popular section of Greenway and bridge where I climb out, and it clung as a reminder — “next time” I need to get that damn thing down. Eventually it will degrade into smaller yet still persistent particles that make their way to the oceans and the food chains of all life forms. On a couple occasions I tried to tear it loose, but in a way symbolic of the problems it causes to fish and all organisms, the material was too tough and would not even tear into sections. So on this cool, non-floating weekend morn, I had a mission and I walked to the river prepared with my retractible Wiss limb cutter. Not intending to cut limbs, so much as the tough polyester/nylon material. Happily, it worked perfectly. 

In addition, once on the bank, of course I found many other discarded things embedded in the sandy soil long ago, or by the recent spring floods, or left since by bone-headed humans. I must admit it perplexes me that folks can make the effort to screw the lid back onto their plastic water bottles yet leave them on the banks, and NOT bother to deliver them to recycle or trash containers! Nonetheless, it was a very satisfying couple hours for me traversing a hundred yards of river bank. Since I had not floated for a few days, it was good to smell the familiar river scents and dip my hands in a few times, climb some tree trunks, and (admittedly inadvertently) get my feet wet. To be clear—for me this feels less a chore than a fun activity. It’s always a sort of perverse treasure hunt: I collected a 1/2 gallon capacity water-gun, a child’s leather shoe, several mesh sand bags, a few socks, plastic bags and bottles, two golf balls, a couple dozen beer cans (many unopened), half of a heavy wire shopping cart, a roughly 25 feet x 10 feet stout tarp (the black morass), interwoven with more transparent plastic sheeting, and one Firestone tire that I was excited to be able to haul out of shallow waters. 

The additional bonus, beyond finally seeing the old sycamore roots unencumbered by the man-made tumor, was within the tire. As I scooped the muddy debris out of it to make it light enough to drag out, I discovered a wee inhabitant, a crayfish. Being a bit camera shy, (or cautious not to become breakfast) it scuttled back into the rim of muck faster than I could pull off my encrusted glove to get hold of my iPhone for a shot. We played this game a few times before it finally relented, trusted that even as I yanked its makeshift trash-home OUT of the river, I really would set it (the crayfish) back INTO the river. Perhaps unconsciously, in my own very small way, emulating the gentle fortitude of someone I deeply admired by recognizing as she did throughout her long life, even the little ones matter. 

Just like in life, some days floating on the river are placid and others are brimming with emotion and interesting moments. I’d gone floating with a friend the day before. We shared hearty conversation and also several long passages of equally hearty silence as we both took in the serene energy of the water on a cloudy and cool evening. An adolescent great blue heron, seemingly as curious about us as we were about it, added a bright note. We were happy we began early as fall weather made the float slightly chilly once the sun had set. Fortunately the company was warm.

That night was not as cool as the previous ones, and the following day the sun shone brightly, so the air, water, and the next evening’s float were very comfortable. But I was distracted. Perhaps it was related to the conversation on the previous float—I don’t know what makes one reflect on someone who is no longer in your life. Is there a trigger? Is there some metaphysical energetic nudge that happens between people across space that we mostly don’t recognize? For whatever reason, I found myself considering a lost friendship, musing with regret how delightful it would be to share a  float with them on such a beautiful evening. I put in and as always, the river currents carried me forward. I tried to not think about what was not, and focused on what was present before me. Each turn seemed to reveal another treat. 

Here was a rock of who knows how many ages, a landmark I’d come to love, with young sycamore saplings still clinging through the floods and all, valiantly trying to grow, green life against a pale yellow sky glow . In another moment, on the other bank was a dazzling kaleidoscope of rippling reflections. Around a curve, trees shined brilliantly off in the distance as river surface mirrored the show. A bit further along the ripples softened and the water spread wide, like the sound of harp strings. 

Then, approaching a usually-peopled-bank, instead it was only occupied by a lone green heron that headed off as I passed. As I floated beneath the next bridge, my fleeting yet stubborn heartache resurfaced, sensing that close yet far friend would so enjoy these wonders too. I let the low cascades and prominent rocks freely spin me to shake off my melancholy. 

Shortly, like a signpost, there was my old river colleague, a great blue, wading in the sun on the left bank awaiting my arrival before heading down river. I smiled, grateful to see my stalwart friend. As I reflected on my heart’s journey flowing forward, I caught a glimpse of an unexpected form among the trees: a doe! Its ears on alert, it seemed ready to leap but instead, cautiously watched me pass. 

I pondered the richness of my ever-evolving life as the textures of tall young grasses and old roots sprinkled with purple blossoms whispered for my attention. A few spins later the water offered interlaced tree shadows offset by a pearly rose sky. Adrift, the current lulled me into a dark nook where lovely fallen kudzu blossoms were suspended in time (I’d posted the image earlier). And then, as if a final gesture of reassurance, the young great blue from the day before came into view, fishing, then standing at attention on a rock, craning and looking over me as I passed. A new friend, I thought, as I was carried down river. I wondered for an instant if I’d ever share these joys with the former friend, allowed my heart to purge, and headed home from a simple and extraordinary float, knowing there will be more wonders tomorrow.

www.johnwiercioch.com/essays

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There are humble, easily overlooked jewels in every moment, for us to savor and share before they float away.

The scent of fall is in the air. For the first time since early spring we had temperatures dip below 60° the last couple of nights. There’s a marked difference in the feel at the close and start of the days, especially being on the river at those times. Much is the same—the leaves are still green; cicadas continue to sing echoing across the water from trees on either side; birds are still rushing about looking for food and calling out. But you can feel our part of the world is cooling faster as the sun is shining on our patch here for less hours each day and setting earlier each evening. 

There’s also that “where did summer go?” feeling, of course all the more potent during the summer of COVID-19. Lots of changes of well-set plans, rescheduled events and celebrations, and with uncertainties still lingering, even our hallowed sports are adapting, and to me more regrettably, many music and dramatic performances, and art venues of all types have been flat out canceled. 

Ofttimes recently I’ve considered my impatience in relation to my mother’s life experiences. She’s 93 and so grew up during the Great Depression and then came of age during WW II. Both events shook everything about her society, and neither had a defined endpoint in sight for several years. Many folks (including her) had family members die in service during a war that encompassed the globe, and where “victory” was not a given. It’s hard to imagine how that type of uncertainty weighs on a person, nation, or world. Those who persevered through five years or more of hell, were tempered in ways that make complaints about masks or social distancing seem like childish whining. 

Of course our challenges are not at all the same. Yet I acknowledge there IS a distinct difference between enduring hardships with others and doing so “alone.” I admit I’m tired of the isolation and social cautions (I’m not disregarding them, but will be very happy when they are safely eased). I’ve made precisely two trips out of the county since March, and like many, have narrowed my life to essentials, mostly only “traveling” within a mile to get groceries, a bit further to buy materials for work and be at worksites. Meantime, a half year has passed. I didn’t “do” as much away from my home, but it took a while for me to move beyond feeling enervated and at times depressed. As the new normal took root, I’ve come to roll with it, eating at home, making almost all of my meals, spending more time directly in my neighborhood, appreciating more deeply the richness of local and home-grown. I’m hopeful other’s recognized the valuable resources within their immediate communities as well. 

I’ve eaten pretty much every meal at home on my front porch—in part because it offers a slight (albeit distant) interaction with others who may happen to pass by. But also because my connection to the non-human-built environment has grown deeper during this time. Birds of all sorts randomly flit by, insects come toward the lamp light or candle or iPad glow on my table. The crickets are still chirping away, even as I write this, but more slowly on these cooler evenings. In this time of no mingling with non-shared-residence companions,  “it” has become my “companion.” I feel more at peace when immersed in it. Whether I’m puttering in my simple garden beds, walking through the hood, or floating on the river.  ​

My time in the river has been a life line, beginning last year and right through COVID, directly helping me keep my center. Each float in the tube is familiar and soothing and percolated with magical instants. Sometimes it’s as simple as a kingfisher calling out it’s staccato song, a child waving as I float by, a flock of swallows performing an impromptu ballet against the clouds, or the sunset light shimmering on the water.  I do my best to savor them all, one day, one float, one moment at a time.

The Gift

Some experiences are difficult to express in writing. The facts are: I went for a pre-workday float on my tube early Friday morning along my usual stretch of the Roanoke River. 

I’d considered a moon light float Thursday might but opted instead to go in the AM. I encountered no one— save the just waning full moon beaming in the sky— on my short walk to the river. It had been a warm night following a hot day, so even at 7 AM the water was like a welcoming bath as I nestled into my tube of solitude. I back-stroked a bit to keep in the flowing currents rather than languish along the banks, given that I had to be at work this morning. With a light touch of one hand as a rudder, I spun to face the approaching sunrise, just in time to savor the subtle yet glowing pre-dawn pastel sky. I snapped some photos and fell back into the float. 

I was still absorbing the beauty as I glided under the Greenway bridge. Spotlit patches of foliage now caught my eye, as the sun crested the horizon and rays reached into the shallow valley made by the river. I rounded a few bends and suddenly full sunbeams were trumpeting through the trees like a clarion wake up call, all the more dramatically beautiful through the rising mist of the river. A few more photos and then a return into my river reverie.

Floating alone in the hush of dawn easily allows one to get in a semi-meditative state of being, calmly hovering, gently ushered forward by the current, no paddling, splashing or effort.  It was in this quiet almost stillness that I noticed my regular compatriot, a great blue heron perched on a root on the right bank about 50 yards ahead. They're very wary and usually fly off when approached, often well before reaching this distance. They usually head out high over the trees, landing far out of sight. A pair inhabit this section of river (possibly the same ones I came to know a bit last year, but I’m not sure). As there are fewer humans in the river these days, they’ve steadily allowed me to get a bit closer. For several months each time I encounter one I make a certain soft clicking sound. I did today as I approached. It turned, hunkered its neck and readied to fly, but then it held fast and kept looking at me. They have great eyesight and a penetrating gaze which I felt pierce me. It looked straight at me, but instead of flying off, it cocked it’s head and looked more deeply into me. I was slowly floating toward it, transfixed. Words fall short. It was magical. 

I came within 30 feet and still it kept eyeing me. Abruptly it jumped (their four foot tall frame requires a boost from their strong legs to get airborn) and finally took flight.  But instead of flying away, it flew behind me, and then in a circle around me! As it passed it spoke a soft “Brrrraaakkkk” (much softer than its usual alarm bark at take-off). I got goosebumps. The massive wings stroked a few times, and it glided to another bank just ahead downriver. I had the uncanny, inexplicable feeling it was leading me. I can’t describe the sensations nor explain why, but all at once I felt very moved and teary-eyed. The water rippled ahead, and some cardinals chirped but the tiny slice of world I was wrapped within was dominated and defined by this heron. Again the current eased me toward it, and again it hesitated before taking off, then alighted just a bit further downriver. Again I “spoke” and as it looked at me, I felt its presence. It slowly turned a few times, tipped its head, then sprung upward and flew another segment In front of me. We replayed our ritual once more; after the final exchange it circled behind me, upriver but well within sight.

I can’t define what we shared. Nor are there words to pin down precisely how I felt (still feel), except to say a chord was struck within me that continues to resonate. It doesn’t make logical sense, especially as I try to relay this in writing, but it’s as if for those moments all else in my world became unimportant, every other thing became “small stuff.” I pondered over it all day, trying hard not to think too hard about it, but rather, allow it to seep into my soul.

I’ve been coming upon these beautiful creatures more regularly for the last two months. This week while working on a new job on a farm out in the county, twice another great blue flew across the fields and landed in the near creek within a stone’s throw of where I was painting. It’s very hard not to feel some sort of synchronicity is in play. I have no answers nor interpretations about just what’s going on, nor what this dawn encounter was all about. The only certainty I have is that I was right where I was meant to be, I received a gift, and I feel changed. 

“...This is the realm of the ordinary sublime: the extraordinary daily behavior of light. The important event in the distance has vanished; the important event is here, now. Daily blessing. Plain abundance...”​

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


An ordinary day, my backyard alley, Wasena Neighborhood, Roanoke, VA.