#10: you're in nature

I went on a retreat in Wimberley this weekend for some kind of a self-help style group that I knew on Friday evening was not for me, but I stuck it out till Sunday afternoon because I didn't want to react too quickly.

The nicest thing that happened was falling asleep on the bank of the Blanco River during the Saturday afternoon break. Before I did, I stood there awhile, then sat and wrote this in my little pocket-sized notebook:

I'm sitting on the bank of the Blanco River,
the grass tall and brown-green around me,
making line-shadows across the page.
The water is a pale green,
and through it I can see some of the darker rocks on the bottom.

Three plops to my left;
a family of turtles, mama, papa, and junior, perhaps.
One swims to the middle and down out of focus, out of sight.
Another swims shortly toward me then pokes her head out of the water.
The red marks on the sides of her thumb-sized head look like earrings,
rubies or garnets perhaps.

The wind blows through the sawgrass,
a symphony of dry sounds;
the surface of the Blanco River ripples and the newly-arrived sun glistens
like so many diamonds scattered here and there.

I say hi to the turtle and she pulls her head sharply under the water
and paddles frantically downward, out of focus, out of sight.
I laugh out loud and the sawgrass laughs with me.


Before I fell asleep, you were on my mind. I felt a sadness, a longing. I don't know where this has been coming from lately, but it has been coming constant and strong, like a flowing river, going in a particular direction, the same direction it has always gone.

I was glad to get back home yesterday, back to my space back to my cat, my best friend, a home cooked meal, a beer, a movie, my own bed...

This morning I found this by Khalil Gibran:

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.


That's it. That's what this is.