When I sit by a
stream, I start to remember who I am. The sunlight shines a spotlight
on the water in certain places and you can see the rocks clearly on
the bottom of the brook. The liquid facade hides what is below in
most places, except where the brightness brings clarity. And the same
brightness seems to shine in my soul when I am at Flat Rock and I
somehow remember who I am.
My life feels like
it is a mess today. If I think this thought through rationally, I would conclude this is not true. But I emphasize that it feels this way because the feelings are so powerful and desperate that I cannot
shake them off at home or church or work. But they are only feelings.
No events or circumstances in
my life demand such desperation, but inside me is turbulence and
chaos. I am on the verge of tears but they never come. I long for the
gentleness of the brook's waters that glide by to somehow jump the
bank and enter my tempest-tossed soul. A woman who
was walking across the wooden bridge just got a
cellphone call, and the phone rang a loud,
old-fashioned ring. She looked over at me, the contemplative
mystic sitting on the bench by the brook, and apologized as she went
ahead and answered the call.
My
soul is settling in with the rhythm of the gentle waters. Great,
now a Korean couple walks by. She is
carrying a hand-held radio and blasting a Korean pop song that
strikes at my serenity as she passes.
Now a family with three noisy children . . .
okay, now it is various other hikers going by as if the
Memorial Day parade is here! Now what? A power
walker flailing her arms in an absurd-looking manner
passes by.
I am feeling
the pressure in my head return.
The boom-box couple pass by again and
cross over the wooden bridge, another pop song blaring. And
why not this: A guy carrying two five-pound dumbbells comes
by for the second time. Who knew? A Korean man who
looks a little like Tim Conway, maybe because the
balding pattern was similar, makes his way past.
My
serenity has
by now been subverted
by people constantly walking behind my back and
then in front of me as I sit
on bench. My serene bliss has
been overrun by a Memorial Day Parade. The power walker
goes by flailing her arms again. I notice her face is angry and
tense, which makes me even more angry and tense.
The
waters, ever so peaceful below, are unfortunately out of reach today.
Although Memorial Day should be about those who departed, the living
are out in full force today,
parading past me as I sit on a wooden bench with a steno pad in my
hand waiting for the muse to come and give me words to write down. I
have found tranquility and inspiration so many times at Flat Rock
Brook,
but today the muse
will not come because she
only comes to a quiet heart.
Two middle-aged woman now walk by, one complaining about
her daughter's purple hair and reinserted lip ring. "What kind
of job are you looking for with purple hair and a lip ring?" she
asks. Her friend did not say a word as they crossed the wooden
bridge.