Sometimes over a period of time, we are privileged to come to know a dear friend. They’re so engaging and wonderful, you find yourself wanting to share pictures of your time with them, and end up talking about and considering and musing over your experiences together when you’re apart. It’s so appealing and calming and vitalizing to be in their company you feel fortunate and grateful and are happy to share them with others. 

This is how I feel about the Roanoke River in my neighborhood— the inconspicuous, mostly unobtrusive life-blood and ancient lifeline through this valley. I was floating the other evening and from a distance saw a young woman on the bank. There was something about the way she was walking, slowly, with a reflective air that caught my attention. Somehow from afar I could feel she was consciously connecting to the river. As the current carried me close, I recognized her, and she me, and she shouted over the light rumbles of the falls “We’re FB friends!” But in seconds we were too distant to talk and that was it. 

I thought I knew her name, and FB (despite its deserved negatives) helped me verify my foggy brain was accurate; it was Katie Trozzo as I thought. We have many mutual friends and yet as far as either of us could recall after, until this instant had never met. So I sent a quick note and, spurred by some unspoken sense during our brief crossing, invited her floating. She was immediately game, even for a pre-workday, dawn float. 

We embarked as the sun was rising. One of several delightful surprises was seeing that she had brought a cache of sunflowers and set them to float in the river when we entered the water. It was a genuine, heartfelt gesture of admiration and “thank you.” This first “flower blessing to the river” for me, felt somewhat akin to lighting a candle at a shrine. I very much appreciated it in every way. 

From this lovely commencement we shared in rich, sincere conversation about her daily outdoor singing ritual, the possibilities of granting a river rights in our society, ecology, COVID, vaccinations, aging parents, and the many challenges of finding our own path and our tribe in this ever-more complex world. It’s so very heartening to me to engage with smart, sensitive young people who are willing to consider hard questions and further, are concerned about life beyond their own, recognize the interconnections, and who are in turn actively engaged in forging communal paths on their own courageous initiative. 

We also shared several sweet silences, encountering or floating past no less than six herons — two great blues at the start, two not quite mature adults (black-crowned night herons, I think), a green heron intently focused on breakfast, and another great blue (very possibly one of the first pair that had flown downriver) just beyond the bridge where we came out, which beautifully and appropriately bookended a most serene morning. 

Less is More

Over time, you come to know a place. In our culture we mostly pass through the world focused on where we are headed or “need to be.” Sadly, I can catch myself thinking about a destination rather than the experiences in front of me as I travel. 

That’s one of many reasons I love floating on the river. The whole point is to immerse myself deeply into the float. If I put any “effort” into it, it’s mostly to try and not think a whole lot, but rather just absorb the experiences as I’m gently carried along within its welcoming banks. Floating in a tube puts me directly in the water. I move at a slow pace, and tubing allows me to let go more completely (it’s not easy to spin freely in a kayak or canoe on a flowing river). There’s almost no need to steer when you’re literally surrounded by a rubber bumper. I also have the option to be silent— which allows me to listen and hear more as well as scare critters less. 

I like variety but my art training taught me long ago that less is often more. By going along the same route (I recently estimated that I’ve floated this same section 250+ times since 2019). I’ve been on this stretch of river April-December, at all times of the day, even done a handful of floats at night. I’ve developed a pretty good sense of what to expect around every bend. Yet I never know for certain. So this awareness, like a familiar old friend, opens the space within the experience to find and appreciate subtleties and richness within the rapport. 

The river, and every landscape we pass through (too often, numbly) are alive and an interconnected web, so there’s inevitably changes. After big floods, the changes can be dramatic. Grand old trees sometimes get uprooted. I’ve noticed the banks get carved out by the immense force of the water (sediment in it acts like sandblasting). Sometimes the protruding boulders are even reshuffled a bit. Different plants emerge, flower, seed and die back each season. Over time some trees hollow out and became havens for raccoons, woodpeckers, or wood ducks and anything else that can make use of them while empty and upright. When gravity finally wins and they lay down on the bank, crayfish will thrive underneath, turtles may sunbathe atop, and herons may perch on the dusty wood to spy and harvest minnows.

The spot in this photo is just under the Elm Ave / Main St bridge. There’s a small island of sorts on the right, which obliges keeping to the left if one wants to float without getting hung up in the shallows. Just as mature plants tenaciously cling to life, new sprouts must be incredibly hardy to gain a foothold. Two young sycamores on the mid-river island just right of the large rock have somehow taken root. They’ve valiantly survived at least three severe floods where they were fully submerged for a day or two while incredible water pressure tugged at them. The tiny rocky island attracts ducks and herons. I imagine it’s because the food is good and easy to come by there. They likely feel relatively safe (humans tend to move past pretty quickly as there’s a slight drop in the river just before it), and so with the weeds and foliage they can be nearly invisible. 

Most of us are pretty distracted right here anyway, because that slight drop in elevation obliges paying attention to three big rocks and aiming for a pass in the brief falls between them. The falls make for a mini-water slide that takes one back to childhood for about 3 seconds. Or not—as in the time I was distracted taking photos of a great blue heron on the aforementioned weedy island one early morning. My leaning body, eyes and attention aimed opposite the flow, and the projecting angle of the smallest of the three boulders combined with a slightly bottle-necked force of water and all at once I realized I was fully underwater and had flipped at 7 AM! 

I managed to grab the tube and spot then grab and toss my encased but untethered phone into the tube as the currents swept my water shoes (which I had removed and had in the mesh bottom of the tube) downstream. However, while shaking off the shock, my bare feet didn’t fare too well on the smooth mossy rocks, so I slipped while attempting to reach one of the shoes. In doing so, I flipped the tube that I was leaning on for support in the waste deep water—and into which I had tossed my cell! Choice words were expressed and I searched intently for 5 minutes to no avail. Finally I gave up and tried to mentally mark the location by the trees on the bank figuring I’d have to come back later—it was a workday as I recall. (Word to the wise— this was as effective as remembering one’s way in the woods by “memorizing” the trees in a forest—hopeless.) 

I stood there dripping and chilled, resigned to be paying for a new cell phone, and took some minor solace in seeing my other water shoe hung up on a tree branch upstream along the bank. As I climbed back into the tube, I was stunned (happily) to discover my phone had wedged between the mesh and underside of the tube! Another stroke of luck, like so many throughout my life

Every bend has character and a tale. A few yards beyond the large rock in this photo, on the left side, is a leafless tree with the girth of a utility-line pole. It’s in the water about eight feet from the bank. It looks to have died. But because I’ve  became intimate with this “neighborhood” the last few years, I know otherwise. In fact it was “deposited” there by a flood in 2020. It apparently was uprooted and floated downstream, vestiges of its roots got lodged in some boulders in the river bottom where it now stands, and the force of the flood waters propelled the tree upright. The top of it caught against some existing trees overhanging from the bank. So for nearly two years (and through a couple lesser floods) it has remained locked (somewhat precariously) in place.

At a glance it may just seem to be “any old river scene” and in a way, it is, like your besty is just “an old friend”. I love the way the cloud is reflected in this image, and how it plays off the heaviness of the rocks, and the smooth fluidity of the river’s mirror surface, and the melting image it offers of the lacy, merging tree branches. I like the mysterious dark lushness of the bank beyond the island. The vital greenery of the plants thriving along this river, which was returned to health by the hard work of so many folks during the last few decades. As I passed just after taking this photo, I saw a black crowned heron wading on the isle. It’s an old river, and yet it’s not a “thing” at all — this photo is just a momentary view of a slice of a place I’ve come to know, grown to appreciate for its beauty, experienced some of its wordless magic, always enjoy passing through the center of, and so often, find my own center within.

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Family

Yesterday was the longest day of 2021 and it was the hottest day so far. I do my best to avoid direct sun, but it was the kind where even light activity in the shade breaks one into a sweat. I was eager to wrap up the work day, swap paint clothes for trunks and water shoes and head to the river. On the walk to my drop in spot, someone a bit ahead of me on the street kept stooping and reaching down. As I neared I realized she was a young lady picking up plastic cups, bottles and litter. I thanked her. She humbly responded “I’m just trying to do my part. I’m a smoker but I never toss my butts out the window. We’re all a family. I jus’ don’t understand some folks.” I told her how much I appreciated her and agreed completely. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but it seems to me we won’t end such habits until we comprehend why folks have them. For me solutions are about finding the balance—avoiding harm and nurturing good without provoking defensiveness.

It was so wonderful to feel the evening breezes after the exhausting heat. The extra long hours of sunshine made the water warm, but I was immediately able to cool down. As I came around the first bend I was delighted to see a dad with a fishing pole assisting a pint-sized girl with hers as they stood in the water. From 50 yards I thought, that looks like Ryan. Before I uttered a word he said “Hello John!” He was guiding his nine year old, Emma (who I learned had a birthday yesterday) on casting. I asked how it was going— “I had a couple of nibbles just as I was pulling it in, but both times I tugged it out of their mouths. So close, but so far!” I smiled and encouraged her to keep at it. Seeing adults sharing their love and respect for the outdoors in such a way with kids seems so heartening and crucial in our era. Maybe this is how we curtail litter habits…

Further along, a foursome, two older and two young adults were foraging in the water, bent over like gleaners. I assume hunting for “river glass” or some particular type of stones. Every now and then one wold hold one up and carry it to a bucket on the bank. On the opposite bank I passed another family, the now familiar trio of white ducks, two adults and a juvenile, all so engaged in their digging something tasty from the mud they barely acknowledged me passing. A spin over the small rapids and there was a dad hoisting a large stone like a super-hero over his head as his female partner, and son, and an adorable puppy (the tails of the latter two wagging excitedly), anxiously watched for the climactic splash! A one-day hydrology engineer toddler daughter nearby, wearing an over-sized beach bonnet was contentedly pre-occupied, pouring water into a bucket in the shallows oblivious to the dramatic event. 

Beyond the bridge I passed another duck-billed family, speckled brown momma and several ducklings, so perfectly colored and safely silent, they only caught my eye in the last instant as I passed. I bounced over a few gentle ripples and I was transfixed as usual by shimmering golden light on the surface intertwined with the ochre-colored river bottom, silvery boulders worn smooth over thousands of years and marine green water in the shadows. I snapped a few images, and when I spun, suddenly realized a black-crowned night heron was directly across, fishing and watching me float past. It was focused on dinner and I suspect, happy to see me head downstream.

I arched my back, reached out my arms, let my spread-eagle frame drape the tube and hung my head all the way back until my hat dipped in the river. Floating this way for a moment or two, I was reminded of a comment from a Jewish friend the other day, about how the hangman in Tarot cards had evolved from the Judaic scholars’ practice of hanging upside-down in order to gain new perspective and provoke insight. I however, had no brainstorm, only a wet skull. But I DID notice the nearly full moon. Sitting upright, I was entranced as it glowed and faded behind veils of clouds, high on the horizon toward which I was headed. It was cool to see it framed between the fifty foot spans of the towering Elm Avenue bridge. 

Another fowl treat appeared as I swooped the last water mini-slide just beyond the bridge. A juvenile black-crowned heron (perhaps the offspring of the one seen upstream), was poking about in the weedy, mid-river island. Lacking the adult’s striking light gray and black markings and yellow “crown”, it has mottled brownish plumage but, like its parents, an unmistakeable stunning red iris. Encounters on the whole float seemed to flit back and forth between humans and birds. 

I slowly meandered on the surface of the waterway to the bridge where I pull out. As often occurs, the tables turned. I became the main object of interest to a family walking the greenway with toddlers; they stopped and pointed at me as if I was an exotic wild being, floating toward them. The kids were delighted when I waved, the friendly gesture of a strange creature on a giant spinning black doughnut, part of some river family, drifting by from its waterworld.

​Appalachian spring has arrived. Away from my home base for two weeks and enmeshed in three intense work projects in a row, I’ve managed little time to make art, write, ponder, or really take in the wonder. Yesterday morning I chose to notice. 

It was a drizzly, misty morning and everything had been freshly cleansed by the soft rains. It felt soothing just to be out walking, taking in the atmosphere and literally taking the mist within. Something about such days makes me more aware of my body’s permeability — as if the water within my cells more readily merges with what we like to think of as the world beyond our selves. Maybe because the potency of the sensations overtakes my often restless mind, tunes it down a few notches. 

Blossoms had already burst forth a few weeks ago but now the predominant tone was verdant—trees that were just budding with tips of green when I left town suddenly were abundant lush textures of fresh growth. The color of the river reflected this change, the canopy of the trees shifting its hues toward a more olive green with hints of golden ochre. 

I appreciate folks making the most of their time, but have no desire to wear earbuds and press something into my mind while I am experiencing a walk. I savored the familiar music of birdsong, a raven’s deep Cronk!, and the river rippling softly over ancient rocks. I was almost alone on the greenway, but then, by typical serendipity, an old friend strolled toward me. Two days prior, her name had come up because a new friend (now living four hours away where I was working) had a brief stay in Roanoke a few years ago and the approaching friend had been her host. So it goes in my life, that threads of connection are always appearing and appreciated. 

We had a meaningful chat, about challenges when family or personal health issues arise, and how COVID-19 had pushed some of us to face and reconsider the trade-offs of our sacred American individuality related to separateness and family and community and death. The issues are not new, but this year for me they feel more pronounced. Will the post-pandemic recalibrate our life-styles and values? Are the changes moving us toward a healthier future? Life is never static, much as we sometimes ache for the security of stability.

As I walked up the alley toward my inner city home, I came upon a pair of deer, who ceased their munching on tender greens and stared. I couldn’t help but consider they were in the yard of the former home of a couple of friends, since divorced and moved away. I learned the mother of one had passed away last week. Changes...Stability... For a moment the deer seemed uncertain whether to stay and engage with me or flee. They opted for the latter and we all continued on our chosen paths. 

My backyard is overgrown a bit, and the overwintered kale had bolted, so I nipped the tops and clipped them into the compost pile, along with the pruned shoots off my dwarf pear. Especially when things in my life are shifting, a part of me craves such simple repetitive tasks. I spent ten minutes snipping the branches into small bits so they’ll more readily transform into rich soil to feed new life. As if on queue, I noticed another shoot of raspberry had popped up in the compost. 

While peacefully mindful at my mindless task, my shoulder was sprinkled when I brushed against a Japanese maple on the side yard. It had nearly died a few years ago, but this moment was thriving. Bending below its lower limbs, I discovered a glorious array of colors—golden bronzes, scarlets, sprouting greens, maroon buds set against the misty gray morning sky. The fresh rains adding both a hazy softness and a clarity, the view epitomizing the richness, mystery and certainty of life’s progression.

​Ecstasy is identity with all existence.
      ~ Peter Matthiessen, “The Snow Leopard”
 
Spring is springing out everywhere here. This year it feels like we’re more hungry for it than I can remember. Maybe seeing the buds and joyful blossoms restores a sense of order and normalcy, an assurance life is going forward. 

We’re always eager for spring but maybe we’re extra hungry because this year has forced death and transitions into our consciousness — a scary thing in a culture that does its best to deny decay as an equal half of the circle of being. Generally our society prefers not to recognize we’re engaged in an endless process of growing and aging and continuous change.

Along the riverbanks the natural toll of the winter is conspicuous. Like every year, ancient trees, seemingly solid middle-aged adults, and some young saplings all succumbed as part of the ongoing cycle and the energy they accumulated steadily infuses new growth. I write this knowing many have lost family members and close friends and in no way mean to diminish the pain and challenges of letting go of those we love. I feel it as my own mother approaches the midpoint of her 10th decade. Considering letting her, or anyone we love go, literally breaks one’s heart. This breaking and healing too is a process.

Many have also stepped up this year to take on extra care for those who are ill, attending to seniors especially, but those in need of all ages. For some of us who aren’t directly offering physical care, our wishes may translate into concern for those we know and love. I try not to let this manifest as worry. I aim toward “conscious awareness” of others that, in my better moments, might be labeled “sending intentions.” Some might call it “prayer” of a sort, though I prefer the former term (hopefully without offense to anyone) because the latter suggests mythologies interceding that I don’t require. However we name it, for me it’s a way to consciously reinforce our too-often ignored bonds to one another. 
The fishermen were out in droves along the greenway early this morning, playing their part in the food chain. I assume the waters were recently restocked. Several brought along young ones. While dad may be able to savor patiently watching his line, it made me smile and recall my own youth watching his restless eight year old boy playing his part: meandering the bank, spinning twirling twigs, hopping rock to rock, and creatively looking for any way to lessen his own boredom. Further along, a trio (dad, boy, and girl) are leaning on the wall of a concrete bridge gazing down where the babbling creek pours into the river. It’s a treat to see the gangly son fully engaged and pointing at the water toward what I assume is a “big one”, and an added bonus to catch the girl glancing my way, return my smile as she softly waves. 

The path along the river is always a mix. There were folks with dozens of seasons pushing their limbs and hearts to keep strong. From a distance I see a young couple with a beautiful lab stop. Curiously, the man has gone into the weeds by the water. He emerges and proudly hands a single daffodil to his partner. It occurs to me they may be pregnant as I pass them. 

Kids are on my mind the last couple of days. One close friend has been struggling through the somewhat expected, still challenging, melodramatic “teen-into-adulthood” moment with his daughter. Another friend’s not-yet-teen daughter contracted COVID and (thankfully) burned through a few days fever and is now on the mend. I can only offer shoulders and ears to one, and support from a distance to the other. I try not to give advice nor platitudes, having learned by past trials and especially this year that nothing is assured. 

When not distracted by people or my own thoughts, beautiful, hopeful yellow buds silently reveal their presence, emerging amid the decaying trees, dead stalks, and ever-changing river. Whether in moments of strife, transition, or joy, the best we can offer one another is an open-heart, an awareness of our shared energies, and our inextricable connection to each other and all life.

Between


To ponder the sky
And my place, I
Stopped on the bridge 
Stretched across the banks
Suspended, above the rushing 
Between water, land, and air
Determined, I 
Like the spaces 
Between


Between the branches of this tree and that
Between built and grew
Between gold, pink and blue
Between the clouds and sky
Between river and street
Between solid and flowing
Between feeling and knowing
The heavens and earth


Between day and night
Between right and wrong
Between noise and song
Between the notes 
Between thoughts
Between breaths
Between pulses
Just 
Be


~~~


Sunset, March 1, 2021, Roanoke, VA
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Sunset, March 1, 2021, Roanoke, VA

What sticks in memory is a funny thing. I can reflect on a moment from last year, but the specifics are already murky. Details from just a couple of years ago have faded, especially without a photo reference. Yet, while I don’t remember every comment of that life-affirming conversation, or who wore what when sharing that much-needed precious hug, the feelings still warm my heart. It’s challenging enough to try to recall my own youth, let alone to try and imagine life in my parents’ or grandparents’ time. Can we even begin to sense life several generations further back? Harder still to fathom the life of people from a time before any of our own familial connections, or cultures beyond ours. We know from occasionally discovered remnants that folks settled at sites along the river in this photo. Hundreds of years ago they walked these hillsides, probably slogged in the muddy river plain, knapped rocks into tools, and maybe even watched the sunrise over those mountains in the distance on a chilly morn. Strangely, the “First People” of this region were mostly gone before European settlers explored these lands. 

A friend is a descendent of Colonel Thomas Walker, (of Walker Mountain fame) who documented his southwestern Virginia “frontier” travels in a journal in the mid-18th century. Already by then, the native people of this area had disappeared—whether by disease, conflicts among tribes, or simply a desire to move on remains a mystery. It’s a fascinating journal, full of details about abundant lumber, freshwater resources, and impressive wildlife (probably surging in numbers as a response to a top-of-the-food-chain predator (humans) having recently departed. He writes of great quantities of deer, bear, elk in the thick old growth forests, that were easily hunted all along his party’s route from here into the regions we now know as Kentucky and Tennessee.   

Only a handful of trees in this valley still exist that are even 150-200 years old. I guess they survived the hunger for wood by being too much trouble to access and harvest, or had the good fortune to not be desired for fuel or lumber. But the vast majority, like the humans and other creatures, breathed, added to the dynamic soup of the ecosystems as they grew, and in decay returned their energies to the earth. Just as the animal life and plant forms have changed, the precise shape of a river is always evolving. Generally the myriad creeks and streams of our watershed have poured into this river for many thousands of years. The mountains in the distance, eroded over eons, are far older. These Blue Ridge Mountains are the edge of the Appalachians, which once were among the tallest mountains on the planet. Geologic “earth-time” is hard for me to envision; cosmic “galactic-time” is almost the beyond my puny human comprehension. 

On a recent walk with this view, I referred to the sculpture of steel cylinders (barely visible along the greenway in the center of this image) as teepee-like. Though the people of this region would have lived in long houses or bark covered round-shaped lodgings, to me it suggests the form of shelter commonly built by cultures in the center of the continent. My walking partner said he thought of it like the pyramidal logs of a campfire — or maybe just a pile of pipes! What we see is determined by our time, our interests, and the focus of the discreet lenses through which we look. I imagine our vision and circumstance also has to affect our memories.  

Does the land hold memories; can we tap into them? Perhaps. Sometimes I certainly feel a presence. For billions of years the earth has spun in orbit, and for millions of years the winter sun has warmed the frosty grounds of these hillsides, constantly spurring the micro-organisms of the soil into microscopic activity. For thousands of years this river has mirrored the rays of light bent by clouds into glowing colors. Trees and plants have responded every year by slowly nurturing buds that patiently await spring thaws. During cold seasons, countless people, birds, large and small furry friends, and scaly critters have all sought clearings, perches, patches, and rocks to best absorb the morning warmth. Whether the details were noticed and stored by humans, ravens, turtles, or trout, as the wondrously interwoven dynamo of life churned on, I suspect the generous warm feeling seeped in, became part of each being, and nourished them for another day
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