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
seemto 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.
-Pamela Toeffer
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