On the Last Day of the Year

It seems right to begin the last blog entry of the calendar year with sunlight shining through a fog over the Clyde river on a late December morning. The river meanders through woodlands, valleys and farm fields in the eastern Ontario highlands, crafting deeper channels wherever she pleases and loving every winding turn she makes along her way. A crone among waterways, she mutters, grumbles and roars as she journeys south to merge with the Mississippi river in Bathurst township. In some places the river is shallow and not much wider than a creek, but she is a wild thing, and she has serious attitude from her birthplace in Clyde Lake to her journey's end. 

During winter trips to the Lanark highlands, I liked to find a perch on the bank and listen as the river sang under the ice. Sometimes, she seemed to be performing a duet with the wind, and there was a kind of Zen counterpoint at work, two unbridled entities utterly independent in their contours and rhythm, but meticulously interwoven and seamless in their harmonies.

Putting all notions of complex orchestration and conventional choreography aside, there's lovely music in the air on icy winter days. The sound of moving water has always been a leitmotif for me, and I often think that my existence can be measured in rivers, currents and intermittent streams rather than cocktails, jewelry, pairs of shoes and coffee spoons.

In springtime, I watched as willows on the far shore leafed out and turned silvery green, then looked on a few weeks later as the river overflowed her banks and asserted her claim to the fertile fields on both sides. In summer, I counted bales of hay and captured images of deer and wild turkeys feeding nearby at dusk. In autumn, the sun went down over the same willows, so golden of leaf and limb that they seemed to be spun out of sunlight or stars. In the now, snow frosts every tree and branch, and the glorious light shining through them dazzles my eyes.

Thank you for coming along with me on Friday rambles this year. May there be many happy rambles in the shiny new year that is waiting for us just beyond the horizon. May there be abundance and healing and light for all of us. 

By the Winter River

The north wind brushes snowflakes away from ice on the river, and clouds of displaced white swirl through the air like confetti. Light flickers through nearby trees and everything sparkles: river, snowdrifts, whiskery branches and frozen weeds along the shore. The scene is uplifting for a crotchety human in December's middling pages. I long for light, and the sunshine is a shawl across my shoulders as it comes and goes through the clouds and the mist over the river—it's like honey in my cup.

Cattails, sedges and spiky wetland grasses fringe the waterway all the way along, their stalwart toes planted in the frozen mud, and withered, dessicated stalks swaying in the wind. The plumes and spikes outlined against the sky are pleasing when one can actually see them, their artfully curling tops eloquent of something wild and elemental and engaging. So too are the frosted fields, fences and trees on the far shore, the cobalt hues of hoarfrost, snow and ice, the golden setting sun painting the river, the diaphanous veil of cold vapor floating above everything.

There are no caroling birds by the river now, and there is silence for the most part, but this week, I remembered how the waterway sang jubilantly in the spring as it thawed, how it murmured softly against the shore on hot summer days. I remembered loons calling across the water in early morning and the last herons of autumn standing motionless in the reeds as the sun went down behind the trees on the other side. I thought of Vladimir Nabokov's memoir, "Speak Memory". On another day, that might have been a good title for this post written in the depths of winter.

The world around me is a manuscript written in wind and light. How on earth am I going to fit sky, river, tempest and dancing snow into one 5x7 image? The sensible thing to do might be to just stand here quietly committing the scene to memory and take no photos at all, but I have never been sensible.

Friday Ramble - Last of the Year

It seems right to begin the last ramble of the calendar year with sunlight shining through a fog over the Clyde river on a December morning. The river is a sister and a kindred spirit, meandering through woodlands, valleys and farm fields in the eastern Ontario highlands, crafting deeper channels wherever she pleases and loving every turn along the way. A veritable crone among waterways, the river mutters, grumbles and occasionally roars as she makes her way south to merge with the Mississippi river in Bathurst township. She is not much wider than a creek in places, but she is a wild thing, and she has serious attitude, from her beginning place in Clyde Lake to her journey's end.

Alas, it has been unseasonably warm here in recent days, and December's lovely snowfall has melted. There is little or no white stuff left on the banks of the Clyde, but thanks to a whole hat full of rain, she is running high and free, archipelagos of tiny icebergs bobbing merrily along in the icy current, around the bend and out of sight.

In springtime, I watched as willows on the far shore leafed out and turned silvery green, then a few weeks later as the river overflowed her banks and asserted her claim to the fertile fields on both sides. In summer, I counted bales of hay and captured images of deer and wild turkeys feeding at dusk. In autumn, the sun went down over the same willows, so golden of leaf and limb that they seemed to be spun out of sunlight or stars. In the now, ice glosses every branch, and the light shining through them dazzles my eyes.

In winter, I find a sheltered perch on the bank and listen to the river as she sings under the ice. Sometimes, she performs a duet with the wind, and there's a kind of Zen counterpoint at work, two unbridled entities utterly independent in their contours and rhythm, but meticulously interwoven and seamless in their harmonies.

Putting all notions of complex orchestration and conventional choreography aside, there's lovely music in the air on winter days. The sound of moving water has always been a leitmotif for me, and I often think my existence can be measured in rivers, currents and wandering streams rather than cocktails, jewelry, pairs of shoes and coffee spoons. 

This is where I come to collect my thoughts when big life stuff happens, and it is a fine place to hang out for a while, happy, sad, feeling broken, or stressed out and vibrating with agitation. The river welcomes me with open arms whenever I turn up. She listens to my story, and she gentles my restless mind. She knits me back together again, or at least to some semblance of wholeness. In the wise words of a friend, "She knows the way". I wish I could convey how much I love this little corner of the great wide world, but a mediocre image or two and a few clumsy words will have to do.

Thank you for coming along with me on Friday rambles this year. May there be abundance and healing ahead for all of us. May there be happy rambles in the shiny new year that is waiting for us around the bend.

What the River Sings

A few rays of winter sunlight fall across the stream bed in the woods with its drifts of meringue snow, glossy ice and exposed current of stones.

In May, there were small rippling waterfalls and gurgling musics all the way along the little hillside river, and I passed many happy (and soggy) hours engaged in the activity known in my clan as "tuning the waterfalls". Shod in wellies and carrying a rusty hoe, I wandered the waterway every week or two, removing dead leaves, twigs and other debris so the water could sing on its journey down the hill and through the woods to the beaver pond on the other side of the Two Hundred Acre Wood. Birds sang in the overstory as I worked, the cascade sparkled, and sunlight flickered through the old trees. The river told me wonderful stories as I splashed about.

Tuning waterfalls is a Zen kind of activity, and an exercise in mindfulness. I have to be in the moment and completely engaged in the exercise at hand, the simple uncluttered (or uncluttering) matter of helping the river sing. I have to stop hoeing occasionally to receive instructions from the water, and I have to listen carefully to what it is saying. I never remove all the fallen leaves, pebbles and sticks; a few must remain as grace notes in the wild hillside symphony. Wendell Berry said it best.

"There are, it seems, two muses: the Muse of Inspiration, who gives us inarticulate visions and desires, and the Muse of Realization, who returns again and again to say "It is yet more difficult than you thought." This is the muse of form. It may be then that form serves us best when it works as an obstruction, to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings."

In the depths of winter, the river on my hill in the Lanark highlands is frozen and silent, but I can still hear it singing over the stones last May. For this ever baffled and oft impeded elderly female, that is a fine old thing.

Friday Ramble - Last of the Year

It seems right to start the last ramble of the year with sunlight shining through fog along the Clyde river on a December morning. The Clyde is an old tributary, curving sinuously through woodlands, valleys and farm fields in the eastern Ontario highlands, carving deep channels as she goes and loving every bend along the way. A wild spirit and a veritable crone among waterways, she resists freezing as long as possible, muttering and grumbling on her way south to merge with the Mississippi river in Bathurst township. In some places the river is scarcely wider than a creek, but she has attitude right from her beginning place in Clyde Lake to her journey's end.

In winter, I find a sheltered perch on the bank and listen to the river singing under the ice. Sometimes, she seems to be performing a duet with the wind, and there is a kind of Zen counterpoint at work, two unbridled entities independent in their contours and rhythm, but meticulously interwoven and seamless in their harmonies. Putting all notions of complex orchestration and conventional choreography aside, there's lovely music in the air on icy winter days. The sound of moving water has always been a leitmotif for me, and I often think that my existence can be measured in rivers, currents and intermittent streams rather than boozy potions, jewelry, pairs of shoes and coffee spoons.

This is the right place to be on the trailing edge of the calendar year. In springtime, I watched as willows on the far shore leafed out and turned silvery green, then looked on a few weeks later as the river overflowed her banks and asserted her claim to the fertile fields on both sides. In summer, I counted bales of hay and captured images of deer and wild turkeys feeding at dusk. In autumn, the sun went down over the same willows, so golden of leaf and limb that they seemed to be spun out of sunlight or stars. In the now, snow frosts every tree, and the light shining through them dazzles my eyes.

This is where I came to collect my thoughts when my soulmate was diagnosed with cancer, then after my own cancer diagnosis a while later. It is where I came when my friend Penny passed beyond the fields we know and when we gently assisted our canine companion Spencer across the rainbow bridge after osteosarcoma had ravaged his dear little metabolism. It is where I came when Irv passed away three years ago from pancreatic cancer. His passing still hurts, and I miss him so much.

The river is where I have always come to replenish the energies and inner directives needed to get through big life stuff like surgery, chemo and the nasty side effects that go along for the ride. Alas, there will be more of that in the new year. There are times when I hardly recognize the frazzled female drooping along the shoreline, but the river knows me, and she welcomes me with open arms. Whenever I am unraveling, the Clyde works her magic, and she knits me back together again. With Beau, family, a loving circle of sisters and kindred spirits and the river on my side, I will get through somehow.

Thank you for coming along on Friday rambles this year. May we share many more rambles in the shiny new year that is waiting for us around the bend.

Over the Rocks and Down to the Pond

Friday Ramble, River

To trace the history of a river or a raindrop . . . is also to trace the history of the soul, the history of the mind descending and arising in the body. In both, we constantly seek and stumble upon divinity, which like feeding the lake, and the spring becoming a waterfall, feeds, spills, falls, and feeds itself all over again.

(Gretel Ehrlich, from Islands, The Universe, Home)

This week's word comes to us through the good offices of the Middle English and Anglo-Norman rivere and the Vulgar Latin riparia, thence the proper Latin riparius and ripa all meaning "of a bank" or simply "bank". The word's closest kin is the adjective riparian, and we use it to describe the fertile ground along waterways and those who live in such places. To be called riparian would be a fine old thing.

From the quiet alcoves and fields of their beginning places to the lakes and estuaries where they end their journeys and merge into their greater kin, a thousand and one little rivers in the Lanark highlands lift their voices, murmuring, cooing, laughing, singing, occasionally roaring. At sunset or in cool morning light, reflections of sky and clouds and trees fill every pool and eddy. After dark, the moon pours its light over everything and Luna seems as much a dweller in the quiet waters as she is in the sky above.

Solitary voices, choruses and concertos, there is attentive presence and connection in every note, and what a metaphor for life and journeying. If I could have named myself, the name would probably have been "River". As it happens, the youngest member of the family now wears the name, and I was delighted when it was chosen. I would like to be around to explore puddles, rivers and tide pools with her in a few years.

Wherever we land up living out our days, we are never far from rivers, and they are fine motifs for wandering. If we are lucky, we will know many in our lives, learn their dialect and cadence, trace the patterns of their ebbing and flowing, commit their rumbling chants and fluid harmonies to fragile memory — the canticles of earth's rivers are ancient stories, and they are the music of our journey.

A peaceful river and a few golden summer full moons, what more can one ask for?

What the River Sang

A few rays of winter sunlight find the stream bed in the woods with its drifts of meringue snow, its gloss of ice and exposed current of stones.

In May, there were small rippling waterfalls and gurgling musics all the way along the little hillside river, and I passed many happy (and soggy) hours engaged in the activity known in my clan as "tuning the waterfalls". Fetchingly shod in wellies and carrying a rusty hoe, I traveled the waterway every week or two, removing dead leaves, twigs and other debris so the water could sing on its journey down the hill and through the woods to the beaver pond on the other side of the Two Hundred Acre Wood. Birds sang in the overstory as I worked, the cascade sparkled, and sunlight flickered through the old trees.  The river told me wonderful stories as I splashed about.

Tuning waterfalls is a Zen kind of activity, and an exercise in mindfulness for sure. One has to be truly in the moment and engaged in the exercise at hand, the simple uncluttered (or uncluttering) matter of helping the river sing. She has to stop hoeing occasionally to receive instructions from the water, and she has to listen carefully to what it is saying. One never removes all the fallen leaves, pebbles and sticks; a few must remain as grace notes in the wild hillside symphony.  As Wendell Berry wrote:

There are, it seems, two muses: the Muse of Inspiration, who gives us inarticulate visions and desires, and the Muse of Realization, who returns again and again to say "It is yet more difficult than you thought." This is the muse of form. It may be then that form serves us best when it works as an obstruction, to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.

 

In the depths of this icy winter, the river on my hill in the Lanark highlands is silent, but I can still hear it singing over the stones as it did in May. For this ever baffled and oft impeded elderly female, that is a fine old thing.

Little River's Winter Song

Friday Ramble, River

To trace the history of a river or a raindrop . . . is also to trace the history of the soul, the history of the mind descending and arising in the body. In both, we constantly seek and stumble upon divinity, which like feeding the lake, and the spring becoming a waterfall, feeds, spills, falls, and feeds itself all over again.
— (Gretel Ehrlich, Islands, The Universe, Home)

This week's word comes to us through the good offices of the Middle English and Anglo-Norman rivere and the Vulgar Latin riparia, thence the proper Latin riparius and ripa all meaning "of a bank" or simply "bank". The word's closest kin is the adjective riparian, and we use it to describe the fertile ground along waterways and those who live in such places. To be called riparian is a fine old thing.

From the quiet coves and fields of their beginning places to the greater rivers and lakes where they end their journeys, a thousand and one little rivers in the Lanark highlands lift their voices, whispering, murmuring, cooing, laughing, singing, occasionally roaring. At sunset or in cool morning light, reflections of sky and clouds and trees fill every pool and eddy. After dark, the moon pours its light over everything and she seems as much a dweller in the quiet waters as she is in the sky above.

Solitary voices, choruses and concertos, there is attentive presence and connection in every note, and what a metaphor for life and journeying!  If I could have named myself, the name would probably have been "River". As it happens, the youngest member of the family now wears the name, and I would like to be around to explore shallows, puddles and tide pools with her in a few years.

Wherever we land up living out our days, we are never far from rivers of one sort or another, and they are fine motifs for wandering.  If we are lucky, we will know many rivers in our lives, learning their language and cadence, tracing the patterns of their ebbing and flowing, committing their rumbling chants and fluid harmonies to fragile memory — the canticles of earth's rivers are ancient stories, and they are the music of our journey.

A peaceful river and a golden summer full moon, what more can one ask for?

Little River in the Sun

Winter's Little River, Singing

October Song

Winter's Little River, Singing

Friday Ramble - Last of the Year

It seems right to begin the last ramble of the calendar year with sunlight shining through a fog over the Clyde river on a December morning. Sister and kindred spirit, the river meanders through woodlands, valleys and farm fields in the eastern Ontario highlands, crafting deeper channels wherever she pleases and loving every winding turn she makes along her way. A veritable crone among waterways, she mutters, grumbles and roars as she journeys south to merge with the Mississippi river in Bathurst township. In some places the river is shallow and not much wider than a creek, but she is a wild thing, and she has serious attitude from her birthplace in Clyde Lake to the journey's end.

In winter, I find a sheltered perch on the bank and listen to the river as she sings underneath the ice. Sometimes, she seems to be performing a duet with the wind, and there's a kind of Zen counterpoint at work, two unbridled entities utterly independent in their contours and rhythm, but meticulously interwoven and seamless in their harmonies. Putting all notions of complex orchestration and conventional choreography aside, there's lovely music in the air on icy winter days. The sound of moving water has always been a leitmotif for me, and I often think that my existence can be measured in rivers, currents and intermittent streams rather than cocktails, jewelry, pairs of shoes and coffee spoons.

In springtime, I watched as willows on the far shore leafed out and turned silvery green, then looked on a few weeks later as the river overflowed her banks and asserted her claim to the fertile fields on both sides. In summer, I counted bales of hay and captured images of deer and wild turkeys feeding at dusk. In autumn, the sun went down over the same willows, so golden of leaf and limb that they seemed to be spun out of sunlight or stars. In the now, snow frosts every tree and branch, and the light shining through them dazzles my eyes.

This is where I came to collect my thoughts when my husband was diagnosed with cancer, then after my own cancer diagnosis some time later. It is where I came when my friend Penny passed beyond the fields we know, and when we put Spencer to sleep after osteosarcoma rampaged through his dear little metabolism like wildfire. It was the most loving thing we could do for our sweet boy, but I still cry when I think about it.

When my husband passed away a few weeks ago, this is where I came. The distraught and weeping female on the shore was surely unrecognizable to most people including herself, but the river knew me anyway, and she greeted me with open arms. When I unravel, the river is always there to knit me back together. With Spencer's little brother Beau, family, soul sisters, kindred spirits and the river on my side, I will get through this big life stuff somehow, but at the moment, mere survival is darned hard work, and I haven't a clue how I am going to do it.

Thank you for coming along on Friday rambles this year. May there be abundance and healing for all of us. May there be happier rambles in the shiny new year that is waiting for us around the bend.

Little River Singing Through

From a Bridge on the River Tay

Little River and Morning Fog

Singing as She Freezes

The River Sings as She Freezes