Row, row, row your boat

 

            Row, row, row your boat

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Gently down the stream. Well, I try. I try to remember the water is moving. Downstream. Now and then I am compelled to turn my boat and battle the currents upstream. The currents always batter me back into submission. Well, I had to try.

Floating downstream is so much easier. Water is movement. Movement is change. Change is neither positive nor negative. Neither good nor bad. We give it those meanings, out of the experiences and perceptions, each according to how we choose to see it.

I am a master at taking a tiny bit of information, running it through my flawed interpreter and coming up with all kinds of meanings. I too often make a judgement based on this event I saw or words I heard. Big mistake. I have one piece of the 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle and describe to you the beautiful seaside when in reality the complete picture is a barnyard from the early 1800s.  As I said, I’m good and often wrong.

Just yesterday I opened my big mouth and blurted out, “As I see it, this is the situation, blah blah blah blah.” I meant this as a positive interpretation. Later, and isn’t it always after the horse has bolted the barn, that I revisit my words, astounded at how easily they could be taken to mean just the opposite, which could be hurtful.

I didn’t lose sleep over it but I did battle the current a few minutes. Today I had a chance to revisit my conversation and clarify my words. What I said, of course, could still be mis-interpreted. I cannot control that. But I sure feel better, gliding with the current again.

My friend and I continued our discussion, different flow, talking about changes here on the Rancho. While we row our boats down our own rivers, we don’t know what awaits around each bend. That is so for all of us, wherever we be, and for always.  

The Rancho owner is in poor health. She has children to number the fingers on both hands. What might happen? Oh, the possibilities, the rumors, the fears, the conjectures. We lease on a contract. How good is our contract? See what I mean. We can either relax and go with the flow, wait and see, or we can worry ourselves sick. Our choice.

Look around our world. One’s home could be lost in a flood, tornado, fire, tsunami, mudslide, sinkhole, alien abduction, termite infestation—do you need me to keep listing options—and, as a result, we all could be living in cardboard boxes under the bridge. Could happen. Who wants to live rowing your boat upstream on that river? This could be crazy-making.

Me, I figure I’ve a good chance of living here in my little slice of paradise until I cross the metaphorical bridge across the Big River. But I don’t know, do I?

One kind of change happened last night. Across the lane at Julie’s place, there has been a tall, rotten tree, limbed out years ago. Francisco planted a Leticia, a beautiful (and invasive) vine profuse with lovely blue flowers, to cling to the stump. I wrote a poem.

Last night

In the night a whump

Shook the ground

The dogs barked up a storm

The storm paid them no mind

Barking louder than the dogs

The weight of water on the blue

Flowered Leticia vine covering

The long hollowed out tree

Finally grounded the old man.

 

We will miss that beauty at the corner. When Julie and Francisco return, I know they will plant something even more beautiful and less likely to fall in the night.

Life is but a dream.

 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July with small rains most nights

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________