John Wiercioch
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Reflections on the Art of Living

Local Luxury

10/28/2020

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When that bracing cold sensation hit on the first step in the water, it made me hesitate for a split second. It warmed up this afternoon but the shorter days and low autumn sun are making it harder to float after my normal workday. Foolishly stubborn or dedicated and loyal, once I commit to be engaged in anything I’m lousy about letting go. I’ve never not floated once I’m down at the river with my tube. I’ve been aware there may soon be an end to my wetsuit-less excursions, and very much want to enjoy the opportunity to take in the subtle changes of the seasons. There’s inevitably something new to see.  Sure enough, I was rewarded. 

I sat in, backstrokes for a bit to get my heart pumping, and slowly my body adapted. Although I mostly kept my feet above the water, my hands began to feel stiff about halfway through my usual trip. I noticed the uppermost water wasn’t too chilly, and wondered if that was due to less leaves on the trees allowing a bit more low angled sunshine to reach the river’s surface. But just a few inches down the water temperature dropped. The water was clear yet dark, and the banks seemed more stark—the boulders and tree trunks more prominent. Things felt still, as if nothing wanted to waste precious energy as the cooling evening approached.

I heard then saw a kingfisher chattering as it zoomed from an outstretched branch ahead of my arrival. But as I watched, it surprised me by making a U-turn and headed back past me like an arrow. As I silently cruised downriver near where it reversed flight, I could hear several birds chattering an alarm on the left bank. It was the bird version of a public 911, but it wasn’t about me. I scanned for the usual suspects: a hawk or cat. Then I saw something entirely unexpected. 

It was a small, lithe, four-footed, svelte all blackish form, with a long tail, darting in and out of a fallen stump. As quickly it slipped inside, then out again, and onto a few boulders, then around them, sniffing furiously the whole time, seemingly oblivious to me. Its movements were nimble and quick. I barely managed to grab my iPhone and snap some shots in time. It paused for just a few seconds, head up like a prairie dog, and looked me in the eye in a quizzical but self-assured way. Apparently fully aware it could disappear in a heartbeat if a clumsy, slow creature like me ventured toward it. And then it was gone. ​

My first thought was a ferret, and I posted this on a friend’s timeline — she’d revealed yesterday was “Black Cat Day” (and requested images of any all black animal pals). I was accurate in thinking weasels are not entirely black or brunette, and it seemed too little to fit my memories of otters in the zoo. I’m still not certain, and even joked there were none in these urban parts, but some quick web research suggests it may in fact have been a mink. For certain it was a new animal sighting on the river for me. It doesn’t verify anything, but it did keep me plenty warm for the remainder of the float.

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Every Journey Has a Mountain

10/18/2020

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“Every Journey Has Some Mountains; Every Mountain Is Sacred” 
12”x 12” Mixed media/panel



​Reworked this painting this weekend—it never quite felt resolved perhaps because it was made during a jagged moment in my life. Many moons have passed since the strained period when it was created, and more mountains have been encountered and surmounted, by me and everyone. I’m including the original essay below because the sentiment still resonates. 


~~~

It takes but a few moments to step outside of my own swirling world of private issues, concerns, and worries, and really look someone in the eye and ask them how they are doing. Crucially, to make the space to get beyond our standard cursory responses of “I’m good”, “Fine”, “Busy!” obliges allowing the time to sincerely listen. There’s no smart phone, wifi, or google required, just patience, sincerity, and genuine friendship. 

I’m often hurried between tasks within a day, but lately I’m trying to make the effort to slow the train down—or at least recognize the other passengers on this shared ride. Fairly soon one realizes that everyone either has faced serious personal issues at some point, or is in that moment being challenged. The more I allow room to learn about others, the more amazed and inspired I am by the amazing integrity and sheer grit of so many “average” folks, even people I may have known for years whose stories I never made the time to learn.

Sometimes we get to stroll through gentle meadows, but it seems eventually we all have to confront some hills. We naturally tend to get wrapped up in our personal journeys, struggling to figure out how we’re gonna conquer that nearest mountain in front of us. Maybe we’ve chosen them, set a goal, planned and prepared; maybe they choose us. Occasionally maturity helps us anticipate the unseen hill, or at least figure how to make use of the momentum we’ve built up when our path reaches it. At times a mountain rises out of nowhere and in an instant we’re obliged to let go of our planned course. Suddenly we have to reset our heads and hearts, maybe even cling to a nearby rock ledge during the avalanche, locate our communal or inner resources, and yes, often still climb onward.  
The journeys are personal and unique but I’m coming to see the challenges are inevitable and universal. They press us to face fearful things and dig deep within our selves to discover untapped resources inside. Or they may insist we recognize our limits, ask for assistance beyond ourselves, accept we need others to keep going. In either case, we are humbled, expanded, and forever enriched, because we recognize in our being the fragility and potency of our shared humanity. The rich tapestry of our timeless human bond is renewed. 

Every journey has some mountains; every mountain is sacred.

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Within the Circle

10/14/2020

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It was warm but not hot a few days ago, more like a “normal” fall day used to be, pre-climate change. Yet I know opportunities to float in warm comfort this year are diminishing, especially for my non-insulated physique, which frankly is more suited to the living at the equator. So far I’ve avoided getting a wet suit by choice. I often think about a friend I met in Bray, Ireland last year, who every day went for a dip (with her large shaggy dog) in the Irish Sea between England and Ireland. I’m certain it’s colder than our Blue Ridge Mountain water way.  She was also thin, but admonished me when I asked about her wet suit—“If you’re going to do it properly, you DON’T wear a wet suit!”  she’d exclaimed (and inadvertently shamed). I do prefer the simplicity of just switching into my trunks, hoisting a tube on shoulder, and walking to the river to float. 

Still, with temperatures dipping into the mid-40° range overnight, even on a bright sunny day, the river water warms only so much. This became obvious when I stepped in. I try to unload my mind’s concerns and get into more of a BE-ing state when I leave the bank and set foot in the water. Kinda my own small ritual of letting go. As I prepared to do this, standing in the river, for an instant I glanced at the always interesting multi-colored, rounded rocks beneath my feet. I happened to notice a dark oval pebble moving. 


I bent down and, in these waning warm days of October, was surprised and delighted to find a tiny turtle, literally the size of my thumb nail. I gently scooped it up, held it for an instant, then wished it well as I set it back into the river with a broad smile. IDK, maybe I’m just easily amused, but encountering this brave little critter warmed my heart for the next hour of floating in cold water. Much as I can be awestruck by the wondrous mountain views from MacAfee Knob, I can also be enthralled and charmed by a creature as big as a thimble. 

It’s a gorgeous time to be in the river. The foliage is showing off its fall apparel, and because of the sun being lower in the sky, the water near the banks has taken on a deeper, more lusty umber tone. The contrast of the river hues against waves of green, amber, and golden yellow foliage, set off by the deep blue autumn sky is stunning. 

Not floating as often these days, I noticed litter in many areas. Some was perhaps revealed by the more barren trees, but it was also in areas I know I had cleaned up only a month ago, conspicuously re-littered by people to whose mindset I will never relate. The insane notion we can make use of the earth but keep removed from the consequences of our wanton, exploitive ways boils my blood. There was some paper, and some glass bottles, but mostly plastics. Our ubiquitous man-made virus, which we keep infecting into the earth’s waters, fresh and oceanic. I set in my mind I’d make a few more garbage-collecting excursions before winter and tried not to let it distract from the beauty.  

As it happened, I didn’t catch sight of any great blues all along my usual route this day. They sometimes elude my sight, but since I felt warm enough I continued a bit beyond my normal take out spot. Sure enough, I was rewarded ten minutes later, where I saw my elegant young friend poking about in the grasses. It moved down river twice as I approached, and on the third encounter, watched me warily but let me pass. Some may think nothing of it but I consider it an honor to be trusted by another being.

It occurred to me on the walk home, the wee turtle where I began my float would readily be gobbled up, soft shell and all by this maturing, ever-hungry heron. The millions of years old ecosystems of nature are precisely and beautifully balanced. I also wondered about the endless flow of our plastics, choking the life in our rivers and steadily degrading as they make their way to the oceans, where as invisible micro-particles they disrupt and compromise more essential systems of life on earth. Eventually, they’re ingested by humans as well. Unless we act swiftly, to change our course, it seems but a matter of time before we’re also microscopically compromised. Our insides steadily disrupted, “gobbled up” by our own invention, perhaps justly, by the vastly more powerful natural systems we live within, and of which we foolishly pretend to be masters. As with climate change, we can ignore it until we can’t, but the Earth will be fine without us.

And I recalled how that bean-sized turtle paddled ferociously against the river’s swift current, and then climbed the slippery wall of the pebble mountain nearby with all its might just to gain a momentary pause. Blissfully floating or scrambling for refuge, there’s no leaving the circle.

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Keeping Good Company

10/11/2020

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It’s been exciting to recognize various animals who live along the stretch of the Roanoke River where I enjoyed my almost-ritual inner tube floats this year. Familiar feathered creatures included: mallards, crows, cardinals, blue jays, various sparrows, cardinals, robins, chickadees, tits, but also waxwings, kingfishers, green herons, black crowned night herons, a grebe, plovers, hawks, some buzzards, crows, a pair of ravens, nuthatches, swallows, possibly an osprey, and I’m sure I’m forgetting a few others. Plus a variety of both scaled and furry beings: many unidentified fish, different types of small turtles, a giant snapper, a couple of snakes (a memorable sighting of one swimming across the river), crayfish, ground hogs, squirrels, chipmunks, a few times a raccoon, a mouse or two, bats, deer, and even a muskrat. 

Listing and identifying flora and fauna is fun, but naming and objectively labeling is an intellectual, ordering sort of activity. For me, the essence of life, the magic of life, is not found through a detached vantage point; it’s felt by connecting, within and through our relationships with other beings. It’s a heart-centered experience. Through the ebbs and flows of life, connections old and new keep us whole. They diminish my singular importance and yet enhance it by making “me” part of life’s larger, unfolding web. They empower, ground, and sustain us. 

Beyond this vast menagerie of beings I met on the river the last six months, usually watching warily from a distance were the great blue herons. A pair, I assume, since other than at the nest or when courting, they rarely hang near each other. As the summer heat moved in, the smaller herons moved out (likely part of their regular migration patterns), and the great blues became more obvious. Covid-19 restrictions had encouraged many more folks to be in and near the river this spring and summer, and these cautious birds keep clear of noisy or boisterous humans. They feed quietly spearing their prey along the banks, so it makes sense; we mostly just interrupt their survival. However, as back to school studies and cooler temperatures arrived, and the river became less “peopled” the herons began to frequent the section I float more regularly.

​
As with humans, developing a rapport takes time. I’d been floating in my tube pretty consistently this year along the same route—May through August nearly every day and during a month of severe July heat often twice a day. My routine has since tapered off with the cool weather. But I feel very fortunate to have encountered the great blues regularly, and, I feel, to have been allowed to come ever closer over the months, slowly accepted as “safe.” 
I remain captivated by these majestic birds; they intrigue and inspire me. We’re generally the largest mobile beings along the riverway. And each in our own way, elsewhere—perhaps because of my height I relate to not needing to announce myself in public settings, and am attracted to their willingness to observe with a mostly quiet presence. The introverted part of me relates to their caution, solitary foraging, and decisive responsive behavior. I appreciate their patience, their keen sight, and lightning reflexes. I strive to emulate their ability to focus intently on what’s within their reach, and yet maintain an awareness of everything on the river. They can appear awkward and in the next second embody graceful elegance. Once they’ve attained flight, watching their slow, powerful, efficient strokes lift them skyward makes my spirit soar. 

When mature adults (they can live 15 years) depart from a setting, they’ll usually fly around a bend well beyond sight—I assume so they can safely reset their sensory radar in a new location that’s “neutral” so any changes or intruders will trigger their alert systems. As the local pair and I became more familiar, a “trust” slowly yet steadily developed and I was allowed to get nearer. As with any friendship, there were missteps, at times I was insensitive to them, other times a loud sound from something beyond me frightened them off. Though I’ve gotten pretty good at spotting them in the distance, oftimes I simply didn’t even notice them until my hand splashing in the water prompted them to take flight. I wonder with regret how often I’ve been selfishly wrapped up in my internal concerns and callously caused a friend to feel a need for space... Seems I’m still learning that in order to honor respectful boundaries, one needs to keep assumptions in check and be aware and sensitive beyond one’s self. 

Coming to know a young adult great blue heron has been a highlight this fall. I’ve watched this emerging adult react to me, seemingly “figuring me out.” As I approach, clicking the same sound over several weeks, it seemed unsure what to make of me and tried out a variety of responses. Sometimes it took flight, but either still learning heron survival etiquette or simply unsure how much of a threat I was, it would fly a short distance downriver, and so we’d repeat the scenario over several times. On other occasions it would straighten its posture, point its beak skyward and hold still. This evolved technique works against predators effectively merging it with tall grasses and saplings and to a degree making it invisible — but not quite to a human floating by, which always made me smile. Sometimes, as I made chattering sounds floating toward it, it would cock its head to either side, intrigued. I’ve seen it fly off, land in the shallows, eye me, then suddenly, like a young human distracted by a text ding, notice something at its feet and forget about me altogether — we all know a mature adult honors priorities and keeps distractions in check  ; ) . 

Friendships with beings of all ages are an invaluable gift. It’s a beautiful, vitally important thing to be able to connect to others. I’m so grateful these herons graced and buoyed my life throughout this challenging COVID-19 year, and my human friends as well. Whether distanced by other priorities, disrupted by my own blunders, or interrupted by circumstance, I hope the sincere and good aspects of our relationships are what hold fast. May we all (herons and humans, pre and post-pandemic) retain mostly the joyful, supportive memories of our shared experiences as we soar beyond the breaks bound to occur through the seasons of life. 

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Shadows

10/6/2020

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Shadows are tough to love. It’s hard to feel completely at ease when we can’t tell what’s before us, what we’re headed into. The world has always been a place that alters ives in instants. We’ve all experienced this directly to a greater our lesser degree.  Maybe we’ve been slightly changed by the dynamic of an unexpected moment; an occurrence may have affected us directly or touched someone we know. It can be subtle or radicle; momentary or longterm. Perhaps we’ve even lost a loved one. ​

So if we can narrow the odds, see what’s coming around the corner, or simply more clearly feel like we know what’s right in front if us, we can at least begin to prepare. Even when there’s limited time, we crave room to anticipate, “be ready”, or just breathe. If it’s disturbing, frightening, or threatening we might make use of the time to evade it. Or sometimes it’s all we can do to brace ourselves and respond as our hearts and instincts guide us. 

It’s the ones that give us no warning that seem to linger after. The awful sense of getting “blind-sided” — where something comes at us “out of nowhere.” They can make our ceaseless intellects spin, over and over wondering how and why and what if?

I was enjoying myself at a small family gathering at a state park last weekend where we rented several cabins. It was a “make lemonade” get together after an unseeable, twice-COVID-postponed niece’s wedding. We were in a rustic setting, fun times, hiking, fireside visiting, happy with lousy phone service and spotty internet access. 

Suddenly a call arrived from my former spouse, but without voice nor message; and immediately I sensed something was up. Luckily a second call soon after happened to get through, a few sentences revealing basics: our son had been in a bad car wreck, he’d called her, and was banged up, but thankfully seemed ok. “He was alone, another car had caused it, all involved not seriously hurt; his car may be totaled.” Within seconds one is swept onto a ride on one of those dreaded roller coasters, careening from great concern to relief within a couple sentences, tinged with slight uncertainty about many unfilled-in details.  

We were several hours away, fortunately his stalwart partner was willing and able to be at his side, and get him home, and then she assumed the responsibility of concussion watch duty through the night and following day, clearly she’s another gift. We’re all extremely grateful he’s since passed the time of critical concern and is sore but well. 
​

We spoke the morning after the wreck. I learned he was driving at night on a two lane 50 mph WV mountain road approaching someone in the opposite lane. They were sensibly waiting for him to pass so they could turn left. Another car beyond the one waiting chose to pass the stopped vehicle, apparently completely not seeing my son’s car, essentially creating a head-on collision scenario. Fortunately my son was paying attention, his quick reflexes responded ideally, and mostly the vehicles’ driver’s side front corners absorbed the brunt of the momentum. Several folks on the scene were very helpful and offered aid and phones. My usually unflappable son was understandably pretty rattled. I heard these details the following morning from him. As is our ritual. I told him I loved him and he told me the same. After we got off the phone, I realized I was rattled and found myself wiping tears as the enormity of the barely skirted danger became clear. 

This great gift (of no severe injuries to anyone involved) that we all received, dominated my thoughts on the journey home. Mingled in were reflections about other unexpected jolts and losses and gifts of the last few years as I drove back to Roanoke. When I returned home in late afternoon, I felt a need to get onto the river. The water would be chilly as the days are no longer terribly warm and there was a slight breeze, but it didn’t matter.  The sun was out and the sky was a brilliant. Early in the float, the great blue and I crossed paths. My fingers numbed a bit as I backstroked in the cold water much of the way to avoid the shadows and keep in the sun. I consciously soaked up every ray with deep breaths.

And I took in the always comforting scenes: the vividly blue sky; amber and rust leaves adrift in the rippling, cold, extraordinarily clear water; the mirrored reflections of foliage beginning to change color.  The low angle of the late day sun in October lit the river in a theatrical spotlight fashion. I saw a flock of robins, another of waxwings, and watched a solitary spider float beside me for a bit, magically suspended atop the water. I noticed waterbugs were still out, scooting along on the river’s surface. But they were not spread across its expanse as usual. Rather, their shining forms were conspicuously congregating — only dancing their water strides within the patches where the sunshine was striking the water. Seems even they seek a comfort in light. 

~~~

A post note: For decades I’ve hugged those I love, and am in the habit of expressing so verbally and in writing to all I care about it. While I prefer not to tell others how to act, I do hope all who read this find some way to let those they care about know their feelings whenever they can. We simply never know when that opportunity will no longer be available.  


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    About ​John's Blog

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    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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