Creek Watch, Day 3

Day 3 of  Creek Watch, of seeing it anew,  my struggles with getting thoughts to paper, my mind swirling with ideas as I cross again and again, Cascadilla Creek.  Six years and what have I seen?  How can I feel like this is the first time I’ve noticed it?  Probably five of those years are lost, invisible impressions that flit in and out of my mind, quick as my crossings.  Some events jump out at me, like the carp spawning, stacks of fish churning in the shallow water, huge females dwarfing the eager and abundant males.  They gather slowly, their numbers growing, sometimes hiding under the bridges, sometimes in the bright daylight, spanning the width of the creek.  And then one day they’re just gone.  I watch for the young, but I never see them.

Then there’s my returning duck couple who make a nest and have a few bobbing young every year, their nest disappearing in a spring flood, later their little family cuddled cozily on a sunny rock.  Summertime blackbirds with yellow eyes sit on the rocks, dipping their beaks and tossing back the cool water.  They clamor for the mulberries that shade the creek next to the Buddhist temple. 

Another day in the summer when all life seemed tucked away, the only living things I saw in the water were a snake, a rat and a crawfish, each reminding me of how cruel hemming in a creek in with cement banks can be. 

I’ve watched the water turn into a slurry of creek soup, slushy globs of soft ice that look like fat, the rocks, sticks, and society’s trash simmering underneath.  Watching the sinuous, liquid ice floes form and change, is like visiting the aquarium and identifying the different fish, dolphins and penguins that grab out attention.  It’s water cloud watching, the steam from my own breathing adding to the circle of water and air.

I vow to never not notice the creek again, thankful for the reminder of how fast life can go by.   I know though, that I will forget, lost in my head, thoughts of good days or bad days at work, what’s for dinner, happy in the warm evening air, and then I will be brought up short by the cool, damp air held by the creek and it’s memory of winter.

Writing Jesus’s Name in the Dust

“I just love writing Jesus’s name in the dust,”  an acquaintance quoted her now ex-mother-in-law saying as they finished up a tour of the new home and life she and her partner had begun back in home territory after being gone for years and years.  I shared my story of a business guest noting after dinner, that “dusting isn’t really that important is it?”   My story was at least free of any lifestyle commentary, but we still laughed at the veiled disapproval and passive aggressive stance of “but I was really agreeing with you.”  I think not.

So here I am dusting someone else’s house and tempted by the light felted canvas on each surface, wanting to add a heart or smiley face or my name, tempted by that virgin space as cave dwellers, tree carvers, wet sidewalk signers and graffiti artists have been for ages.  Even my cat turned into a billboard, her pure white sides calling for decoration.  So one Christmas to amuse the kids – what was I thinking – I outlined a green Christmas tree on her side with washable, non-toxic marker (no animals were hurt in this process, only embarrassed).  Of course the kids shrieked in glee, but I had not thought through the consequences, that it opened the door of what next.  There was a year or so that Snowball sported many the seasonal symbol, but the fun stopped when both pre-teen and cat had hot pink hair.  Everyone got a bath then and the line was drawn.  No more decorating the cat.  But express ourselves we must,  and spray bottles and food color were purchased and the snowy yard turned into a 4-color diorama of sharks and waves and snow swimmers.  It was great.

So here’s to all those artists big and small, to expressing ourselves and encouraging others to let it out.  It makes me feel like Peter Pan, hands on hips ready to crow, “I did that!”  The expansive freedom of seeing a thought or idea come to life is so exhilarating, it becomes the definition of life itself, and I can’t wait for what’s next.

Color Me Winter

Sitting here in the light of the pre-dawn morning, only the contrast of black ink on white paper is visible.  The snow and air are blue and there is a waning moon with frosty edges just touching the trees.  This has been a rare sighting this winter.  Last night’s orange and purple sunset was enough to make me stop my car mid-road and take a picture. 

Our southern cousin La Nina brought us weeks of snow showers with only the occasional day of sunshine, so I have missed the blinding sparkle of sun on snow, and the purple and blue shadowed snow at sunset. 

Thank goodness for the artists who can see the green in the sky as the blue of the day gives way to the yellow and orange in the evening.  They know snow is a superior canvas as any bought in an art shop, with its ridges and valleys, its sheen, its angles, the light bouncing from each individual crystal.

The sun is up now, the birds are attacking the feeder and work beckons.  While I have diligently hung on to taking Snow Days since Kindergarten, I may need to rethink this and consider taking Sun Days, too.   But not today.