Down by the River

Recently, while on an early morning Nook and Crannying session out at the parentals, the woods yielded a new spot. Go past old Ellen’s house, scramble down a knoll past all sorts of trunky ruins, cross an earnest little length of field, and behold: a live creek runs. At times, it seems to be running for long distance, and at other times it might just be frolicking with its shoes untied, tripping over itself in a series of splendid faceplants. It all depends on how you listen. As John Berger says, “Receptivity is everything.”

Good man.

On the bank, a throne beckons. Sit. From there, watch as an aerial bird ballet accomplishes itself. A tree sways, still drunk from imbibing in last nights moon drench. A myriad of rustles, crunches, and amorphous babel (was that a bird fart?) abound. The air is vigorous; it carries January’s bite in its wake, and despite the warmth of Spring’s recent encroachments, the cold teeth serve to remind us of winter’s vitality. All of these things are gifts, and to not accept them would be to wage war against the giver. That’s why Berger is so right. To truly receive is an art; to appreciate, to observe, to internalize, maybe even to become. There’s nothing passive about it; to accept oftentimes requires more energy and awareness than to bestow. Sometimes it’s harder, like accepting another person for who they are. And sometimes, all it takes is a little jaunt down to the creek, to soak up some A.M. goodness, and to listen to the bird farts.