by Sonja Ljungdahl

 

Thimble berry plant leaves and horse mint brush against my pant legs. I have found a tiny island, crossed a fallen log (Douglas-fir!) and now sit, back supported by the same decaying bridge: moss-covered comfort.

Home.

Light filters through the canopy, enters leaves and triggers the unseen dance and churn of carbon fixation. Molecules split and form, unheard by the machinery of my human ears.

Light hits water: reflects, refracts, glistens, warms my face.

Take stock:

I remember twenty-three years ago, standing with Hilary, on a bridge spanning the Breitenbush River. She shared with me her practice of aligning her body downstream, a meditation where she imagined the river composting that within herself she wished to let go of—insecurity, shame, fear, selfishness, hubris. Then, moving to face upstream, filling herself with things she wanted to take in—generosity, patience, confidence, kindness.

For twenty-three years, when I have found myself at creeks, rivers, streams, I’ve continued the practice. Interesting that today, I find myself at peace; so often my experience is to feel compressed by the many ways I wish to change.

Home:

Here on the South Fork of the McKenzie water is pushed and pulled. Momentary impedance of stone and branch create a melodious and soothing burble.

A part of me, I am convinced, was made to sit by streams.

I remember twenty-six years ago with Renee, our bodies partially submerged in the Feather River. Slightly altered and convinced we should never return home. (Why would we?) The abundant canyon had all that we needed—water, shelter, sunlight: dig roots, pound acorns.

Take stock:

Vine maples, Douglas fir, cow parsnip (in bloom!), nascent thimble berries, stone, light, air, decay—the past: a control to measure against.

I am still impatient. I still talk too much. I still can assume the worst in others. My pendulum still swings between self-aggrandizement and self-deprecation. I still possess behaviors I want to send down the river.

Home.

Below the surface salamanders pull oxygen through their skin, shelter from the sun of the drying summer, do not question their contributions to this living/decaying/living earth and its cycles. They do not ask how they can be the best salamander.

Today, unburdened by the intense desire to change, I let the crisp, cool air enter my mouth and nose: breathe in what plants breathe out. For the first time in twenty-three years, I omit the practice from my stream-side musings. I do not want.

I have slipped into the awkward shoes of our time and am finding some grace, some semblance of peace. Swimming upstream into it.