The Creek is my place...

Today's thoughts brought to you by Mary Oliver 

Creeks 

The dwindled creeks of summer,

Unremarkable except,

Down pasture, through woodlot,

There are so many

And keep such a pure sound

In each roiling thread,

Trickle past the knees of trees,

Dropped leaves, salamanders,

Each one scrubbing and cooling

The pebbles of its bed.

My back to the hickory, I sit 

Hours in the damp wood, listening.

It never ebbs.

Its music is the shelf for other sounds:

Birds, wind in the leaves, some tumbled stones.

After awhile

I forget things, as I have forgotten time.

Death, love, ambition ---the things that drive

Like pumps in the big rivers.

My heart

Is quieted, at rest. I scarcely feel it.

Little rivers, running everywhere,

Have blunted the knife. Cool, cool,

They wash above the bones.

I don't know what for....

It is the nature of the stone to be satisfied.
It is the nature of the water to want to be somewhere else.
~~ Mary Oliver.

It is no secret that I am a fan of Mary Oliver. I have purchased two of her books of poetry. I keep finding parts of her writings that seem to speak to me personally. Of course, I know that she did not write for just me...but to the general public of course.

How do I want to be remembered once I am no longer around? 

I know. Morbid thoughts, right? However I am in a close relationship with two people that are living slow deaths. My MIL has dementia, suspected Alzheimers and my husband was diagnosed with Vascular Dementia from his stroke in 2017. My MIL has marked memory loss and cannot function safely with her health issues safely outside a skilled nursing facility. 
My husband does function fairly well. But eventually he too will fall into 'slippage'. 

How invisible are the elderly and infirm. 
Yet how delightful they still are.

And when is it my turn?
I mean, I can't help but wonder, right?

When it is over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
~~ Mary Oliver

I have a collection of her works handy with sticky notes from something I find each time I read through her different works. I mark the place and leave a short not as to how it feels to me.

So begs the question. Will I make an impression on this world? Or my small surroundings? And does it really matter in the end?

And do I really care? 
I go into 'Nature' at least once a day as I explained recently to an ex co-worker. 
I find a way to make 2 hours available to myself in the afternoon to go for a walk or hike. I do it for the fresh air and because for 2 hours I am not caring for another, or planning...

For two hours I am 'mind free' of distractions and have only perhaps Charlie and Sven to keep track of, where my next step is, rock hopping across the creek
listening to the song of the water over the rocks
discovery
wonder
life



Yes. I think that is what Mary Oliver found too. She had poetry to express herself in eloquent words.

I have the camera to express myself.


I think that is good enough.

I leave you with this excerpt from Mary Oliver's poem
1945-1985: Poem for the Anniversary

The way I'd like to go on living in this world
wouldn't hurt anything, I'd just go on
walking uphill and downhill, looking around,
and so what if half the time I don't know
what for--

And I think that sums it up perfectly.

Why do I walk the Woods?

I really wanted to be very clever and say something with deep inner meaning and thought.
I even read Rumi for some inspiration, but sadly, his words are not my words.

So instead I told my husband that I was going to wander down to the creek. I said something like "To check the trail camera." He looked at me and smiled. He was sitting and watching Netflix. I know he is in there and he smiles, but his face is innocent and almost blank.  He also knows that what I mean to say is:

"Hey honey, I'm going for a walk because I can't sit still."

He is much better now, not depressed but still the person I used to be with has become someone else. It isn't his fault. The brain won't work quite the way it used to.

I grab a copy of Mary Oliver's book "Felicity" and my camera. I say over my shoulder as I head out, "See you in a bit!"

He nods and turns back to the program he is watching.

Funny how he never watched TV and now that occupies his afternoon hours. I can't even drag him away from it unless I walk up and hit the pause button.

I clutch the book with me and wonder why I've brought it. Really? A poetry book?
And it could start to rain at any moment.

I shrug and head out across the soggy meadow, my feet going squish squish across the grass. Actually, the National Weather Service predicted 2 to 4 inches of rain again tonight. So I am worried about the desk and the bears. 

The camera bag bumps me as I negotiate the trail down the steep hill. I can hear water falling from the 'run' off to the left. But it is getting darker out so I won't explore all of what I want to. I'll save that for another day.
I have something important in mind, but the idea is not clear yet.

I get distracted and make a slight detour.

The light is fading so I work quickly. I know exactly what I want to 'shoot'. I carefully lay the book on top of the camera bag and take some shots.

I want to see how these areas will change after another flash flood.

I can hear water droplets falling out of the trees. My book has gotten water on it. I carefully wipe it off and continue downstream towards 'the beach'.

I pick a rock to take a shot on. I need to find a good spot to 'shoot' from now until Spring. I want to see how this looks in all seasons.

Well, that is not what I came for not really.

I stand up and hold the book in my hands.

There is the desk.
It is very heavy and shouldn't wash away, but I don't want it to get damaged.

So I move it.
I carefully set the Artist Conches that the kids had drawn on aside and put them inside the desk.

I move the desk up above the creek to where it will be safe.

Off in the distance I hear a rumble.

I wipe off the desk and sit down.

And I flip open the book.
I read:

A Voice from I Don't Know Where

It seems you love this world very much.
  "Yes," I said. "This is a beautiful world."

And you don't mind the mind, that keeps you
   busy all of the time with its dark and bright wonderings:
   "No I'm quite used to it. Busy, busy,
   all of the time."

And you don't mind living with those questions,
   I mean the hard ones, that no one can answer?
   "Actually, they're the most interesting."

And you have a person in your life whose hand
   you like to hold?
   "Yes I do."

It must surely, then, be very happy down there 
   in your heart.
   "Yes," I said. "It is."

~ Mary Oliver

I close the book.

I now know why I walked the woods today.

The Project

"As the crickets' soft, autumn hum
is to us
so are we to the trees
as are they
to the rocks and the hills."

Gary Snyder 

It was this Haiku that I heard last year by Gary Snyder that set me to thinking about my next project in book form.

My photo-journey books are nothing more than wonderful projects I think up that involve two of the things I like the most.

Well, two things I like to do a lot?

Photography and writing.

Oh I guess my list could be much much longer.

Hiking, exploring, riding, dogs...but you get the point.

Everything I do in my adventures of hiking and riding seem to cross a small seemingly insignificant creek that runs approximately one mile from the spring to where it joins a larger creek.

Here is a trickle of water that gently moves over rocks and earth.  It follows with the path of least resistance...always seeking lower ground.

The creek fascinates me in so many ways.  It can have a quiet little murmur as it makes its way down the valley or the the loud deadly roar from a flash flood.

The creek is vital to the valley's wildlife.

It is there.

The creek doesn't participate in the drama that may occur on its banks.  It ignores the death throes of a doe caught by a pack of coyotes or the wandering of a raccoon or 'possum looking for an open spot of water to get a drink when it is 20 below.

The creek is steady.

It is the live blood of the surrounding valley.

So I'm going to work on a project of how it changes with the seasons.

After all, I nearly cross this little creek every day.

 

And so starts my journey about something that seems so insignificant, yet ... is not.

 

“Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.” 

Gary Snyder