Out there, a heron calls its rattling, croaking call, which reaches far back in time — a sound so distant in the symphony of the world that, perhaps, it recalls the auditory recoil of the time of the dinosaurs.
Water drips from the madrona, old gnarled curling branches, a spatter on fallen leaves. And the water below merely whispers — now, and again — I am here, listen for me. I call you, to remind you — I am here.
My flashlight, reaches into the trees, and — in the darkening — captures only the glimpse of the crimson brush curves of the vermillion bark; and beyond that, knowing the shimmering water lies beyond, lies beneath.
Mystery surrounds and abounds, those that wander in the night, listening. Seeing what cannot be seen. Even in the light, known, there are things to be sensed that are, perhaps, more often, passed by, in those that see casually, cast back their vision, on only what is close to their rim of vision. Selfish — seen.
Is not, then, our role to teach? Gentle, the gesture of the knowing brushstroke, story told…
And, in the time of our working together, sharing — there are those learnings. Patience in the moment, what is — is; what can be felt — found; what can be learned — gathered.
Wishing well, wishingwell: