Sunday, December 16, 2012

How long has it been?

                               
Someone at the Tin Angel asked how long has it been since I quit smoking.  The importance of dates, demarcation lines.  All these come into play with that question.

            When looking back a date saves you the trouble of needless explanation and soul foot shuffling.  That date.  That reason.  All the spokes in the turn of events. 

            How long has it been? 

            Here’s one answer:  Last week I thought of writing myself a note of solace, something like a prayer.  Words were hard to come by.  But as I walked around my yard something about the quality of light captured my attention.  The sky felt close.  In winter there’s little to separate it from the ground except the Gothic spires of the bare branches.  Maybe because the leaves weren’t there to tickle their toes, the shadows on the ground didn’t dance around.

            Could it be that these thoughts are prelude to prayer?  I’ve always sought my serious answers by water.  I don’t know why that’s so but it’s something I’ve come to accept.  So when I’ve got some serious thoughts that need to be played out in my head I’ll go to the ocean or take a walk by the river.  I think that I actually have a core belief that the answers reside in the water.  And this time I thought it may be in the river, which is just down the hill from me.  At this time of year the buffleheads are bobbing their shocking black and whites, sometimes in groups of forty or more.  It is a fantastic sight.  At the edge of the river it seems as if the water flows from your own eyes, a silvery mirror, reflecting the bright, rippling sun.  Your feet slowly sink an inch or two into the silt.  The sand is soft.  Plugs of new reeds beneath your feet ready to jump an inch or two with the first hot sun, support your weight.  The water meets the edge of your sole and the longer you stand there, transfixed by the play of light on water, with a chorus of geese on the other side of the river, the more the river seeps into your shoe, climbing into your sock the way demitasse is drawn through the sugar cube.    (for more of Conversations with Nic - keep your eyes peeled for the e-book. Coming to a reader near you soon.)


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