The Stream By finnchuill

I’m sitting on a bench, happy that the stream that has been dry lately, except for a few diminishing pools, the last hideout for the frogs, has water again. I met this stream last year, just about a year ago, and since walk along the ‘streamside trail’ frequently. Walking is a druidic practice for me. The land by the stream slowly opens itself to me. Small naio trees form an open grove about me.

My thoughts open to this: place is a kind of gnosis. A place slowly coalesces around me, around my body on a bench, in and out of my mind, my breathing, my perceptions. The stream is variant, diverse, sometimes hugely full, flowing up through small side channels, even taking out the little bridge one time last summer. Other times, all polished boulders, small puddles. Everything is volcanic here, water can percolate down into the earth easily, but up in the mountains it rains a lot, sending more water down. Such simple things, but so often ignored, such small things the place reveals.