there and back again-
without getting filthy (or at least staying mostly dry.)
I walk out my (back) door, in search of I know not what...
The Road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began.
It’s December now, and a creek ramble in the Shire is a different thing altogether than it was midsummer. The birds are mostly still, mostly absent. I hear a lone chickadee, and one furtive song sparrow darts silently from thorn bush to brush pile.
Trees stand stark against a sky that seems to have forgotten the color blue. Most of the weed grasses are tawny and bowed toward the earth. Even the thistles have had their spines and spirits broken by the harsh wind and freezing temperatures of the past week.
But not today.
No shining eyes appear from deep shadows, no tail slips out of sight like a fading shadow.
“There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something…
And it’s true again today.
Abruptly I realize that the silence around me is, in fact, not silent.
The creek is chuckling along, rippling just like it did on warm spring afternoons when birds sang and twittered along the brambled banks.
Water music burbles beside me, and I’m smiling. When the creek banks taper inward, and the stream is forced through narrow straits, and I hear a crescendo of melody. A rock looms large, and the water swirls around it, ever singing.
The place where the children played that last warm autumn day, building a dam near the fallen tree- right there, the babbling water laughs and tumbles and throws tiny droplets to form a delicate ice sculpture nearby.
This is how the meadow stream decorates itself for winter.
Overhanging branches reach down, and the stream splashes them with crystal beauty.
And look, here at my feet, the colorful blooms of winter.
but it is not always quite the something you were after.”
Today I found creek songs writ full of lessons about...
choosing the melody of joy,
listening through the quiet,
watching for fragile beauty in hidden places.