Yordi Creek is where I go when I need to be alone.
I close my eyes and the day is drifting.
My blanket is beneath me. I sit alongside the creek.
I'm listening.
And watching.
I sit as still as I can on a late autumn day and witness to these invitations:
A splash in the water; a fish jumps.
A rock falls from the hillside and splashes into the creek.
A large bird takes off from one of the old oak trees. The air was so thick I can hear the sounds of its wings flapping as it flies over me.
A butterfly moves from one bush to another.
A honeybee hovers near me.
A woodpecker beats on top of a picnic table, knocking, knocking, and perhaps sharpening its tool for the wild.
I watch the fish that had splashed in the water a few seconds earlier, swimming in a circle. The sun shines on its scales. It looks white in the water.
Breezes stir, the dying leaves fall. I can hear them on their journey to the ground below.
One falls into the water, exciting the white fish. It gulps it down, thinking it is a tasty insect. Only a second later it is spit out, making a small arch above the water.
A lizard runs onto the top of a rock, sunning itself for a few minutes before scurrying back underneath to the shade.
Two lily pads have taken hold in a placid section of the creek.
I'm fascinated they look so out of place, their flowers large and succulent on dark green leaves, finding a place of peace among all of the activity around them.
Just like the dementia settling on my mother, age settling on me, and friends becoming distant, I don't hear or notice them happening around me . . . until I am still and I pay attention.
They seem to rise from an invisible place that is dark, deep, and hidden.
I wonder if the depths of an invisible plane had opened for me as I sat listening, reminding me of simple joys, sweet memories, and the remaining life I have left.
I wished I could jump in with them forever, escaping the pain of . . . this.
Pamela Taeuffer
Comments
Post a Comment