A Spot by the River
I went to a spot by the river where I could sit and write and listen to the water rushing over the rocks. It made a sweet sound. Not the roar of Niagara but the hum of a steady flow that when I struggle to describe it just reminds me of the sacred om.
I leaned back on the bench some loving soul had set on high ground above where the river makes a bend. The force of its movement washed away earth and rock and left sandy beach below my feet. It was too chilly to go wading.
The day before had been sunny and hot with not a cloud in the sky. I had chores and errands to run then. In the middle of them I promised myself I would go to this place far from town and breathe in the smell of woods and water. I would have a day of rest in this beautiful spot; but by the time I got there the weather had turned. It was damp and cold. The view at the river's bend was beautiful. Rock cliffs protect both sides of the valley the river formed through the ages. But it was hard to enjoy because I sat wondering how long it would be before the clouds burst open soaking me to my skin before I made the walk back to my car.
I'd been at that same bend in the river on blistering hot days. I had walked into the water. Sat in a tube and floated the current downstream. The mountain spring water was warmer then.
I'd come back in early fall. The leaves had not brightened into their full seasonal glory. Even if they had, I knew I'd be thinking about when I'd been there in the spring and had seen the dogwoods displaying their delicate pink and sacred white blooms among the early green dotting the ridge tops.
I watched the water flow past me. It reminded me of that morning's Sunday service. Nothing is permanent. There is always movement. Change. An eddy here or there may give the appearance of stillness and rest. But don't be fooled. Underneath the seeming stillness there is movement and the sometimes stagnant water will work its way back into the mainstream when its time.
I leaned back on the bench some loving soul had set on high ground above where the river makes a bend. The force of its movement washed away earth and rock and left sandy beach below my feet. It was too chilly to go wading.
The day before had been sunny and hot with not a cloud in the sky. I had chores and errands to run then. In the middle of them I promised myself I would go to this place far from town and breathe in the smell of woods and water. I would have a day of rest in this beautiful spot; but by the time I got there the weather had turned. It was damp and cold. The view at the river's bend was beautiful. Rock cliffs protect both sides of the valley the river formed through the ages. But it was hard to enjoy because I sat wondering how long it would be before the clouds burst open soaking me to my skin before I made the walk back to my car.
I'd been at that same bend in the river on blistering hot days. I had walked into the water. Sat in a tube and floated the current downstream. The mountain spring water was warmer then.
I'd come back in early fall. The leaves had not brightened into their full seasonal glory. Even if they had, I knew I'd be thinking about when I'd been there in the spring and had seen the dogwoods displaying their delicate pink and sacred white blooms among the early green dotting the ridge tops.
I watched the water flow past me. It reminded me of that morning's Sunday service. Nothing is permanent. There is always movement. Change. An eddy here or there may give the appearance of stillness and rest. But don't be fooled. Underneath the seeming stillness there is movement and the sometimes stagnant water will work its way back into the mainstream when its time.
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