Tag: waterfall

If a Tree Falls in the Middle of a Waterfall, Does It Make a Sound?

a tree in bloom over a waterfall

View from my Studio Window, Before

She buds.
She blooms.
Over the course of ten days, she comes into her full glory. Every day I sit looking out my studio window, mesmerized at the splendor of her branches gracefully sheltering the spot my log once called home.

Today, as I eat a pack of crackers and call it lunch, I listen to Clarissa Pinkola Estes tell the story of her trumpet vine and how its raucous blooming annoyed the neighbor man. One spring he harrumphed over and asked her to cut it down. “I can’t do that,” she told him. “It’s an old vine. And beautiful.” One day she arrives home to find that the neighbor man has cut the vine down to the ground. And on her side of the fence, mind you. Once the initial wave of grief passed, she digs up the vine, plants the roots, and in a short while, the vine is growing again.

blooming tree lays across waterfall

blooming tree over waterfall

 

broken tree

 

I cover my mouth in horror of the neighbor destroying the trumpet vine, pick up another cracker,  and look back out at my tree of graceful blooms . . . to find it laying in the water. Tracing it back with my eyes, i see where the tree trunk snapped, the blooming limbs landing in the falls. Once again I cover my mouth in horror and disbelief.

Later, while I am on a business call, The Engineer and Mother  go out, cut off a few small branches, smash the ends, dip them in a root-activating powder, and plant them in soil. The trumpet vine grew back, so I’m hopeful these will begin to sprout, too. Maybe in a few years, I’ll sit mesmerized under the beautiful blooms framing the waterfall (I’m on my 17th day of yoga, so I might be able to get down and back up by then – it could happen.) I’ll spread out a quilt and picnic under the gloriously blooming tree, telling her the story of her grandmother who once thrilled my eyes and salved my broken, grieving heart with her beauty.

You Wood Miss Her, Too

a waterfall

Last night was a brightly colored weather calendar.
Rain fell sideways for hours and hours and hours.
Wind threatened to turn our stationary house built upon a rock
into a house boat
and send us down the falls.
Thunder came in one gigantically long clap
that knocked pictures off the walls.

The lightning came indirectly from Mother Nature
as the electricity danced with our generator in a mechanical two-step
on, off
off, on.

It was a frightening night
to say the least.

We woke to an ebullient waterfall
telling us the story of last night in her own language
of loud, full, boisterous falls.

a waterfall

And then I noticed it.
My log was not there.

a waterfall

Years ago, in another night of
raging, threatening weather,
the log was wrested from the place  she then called home
and came to perch on the edge of the largest drop
of our waterfall.
Right on the edge, I tell you.

a log in the water

She lived on the edge
in shade and sun,
this log did,
with just enough of each
for her to become her own ecological system.
Plants sprouted on her
grew on her
bloomed  on her
then died on her.

a frozen waterfall

The water rushed around her.
The water froze around her.
Beavers skipped over her to get to the other side.
Driftwood pieces scooted by.
Some waved at her,
some didn’t find her worthy of attention.
And still she stayed just the way she was, this bole,
totally un affected.

A boy and a man play in a waterfall

One summer, she taught Handful how to play her version
of Pooh sticks.
His glee was infectious
just as she knew it would be.

She became my womentor,
I spent many an hour
talking to her
watching her
listening to her
learning from her.

I don’t mind telling you
that I already miss  her terribly.
I also don’t mind if you know that
I cried my way through the morning.
She may have looked like just a log
stuck on the edge of the falls,
but to me
she was more.
Much, much more.
She was my friend, my guide, my muse.

I admired her steadfastness,
her stillness,
how content she was being
a log.
She didn’t try to be water
or a boulder
or a bush.
And you know what?
As good friends as we were,
she never once asked me if the sticks
that attached themselves to her end
made her look fat.
She didn’t allow the rushing water
to steer her from her course
or move her from her perch
or frazzle her.
Nothing phased her.

She didn’t get flashy
or show off
or (try to) steal the spotlight from the falls.
Most people didn’t even notice her
till I pointed her out.
She was who she was
she was where she wanted to be,
she was fulfilling her life’s purpose,
and that was Enough.

I’ve been making some internal changes
in my life of late,
inspired in part
by The Log.

There have been other dramatic storms
since she took up here
so why did she choose last night
to let go and move on?

Perhaps she’s taught me everything I need to know.
Perhaps it was just plain time for her to go.
Perhaps you’ll say
”It was just a log.”
You’d be wrong.
But then again, maybe you’ll say
”I know you’ll miss her
and I understand why.”
and then you’ll be right
and I’ll be grateful.

the view from here . . . through nancy’s eyes

Mountains

Nancy03Dec13a

Falls1

Nancy03Dec13b

as you no doubt recall, nancy spent thanksgiving with us here, atop this mountain where our home sits perched on this waterfall. her teacher (thank you, mona) sent me these drawings made by nancy on her first day back at school after the thanksgiving break. they take my breath away. one day i’d like to see what would become of nancy’s drawings in a 3-d printer. until then, these call for some special stitching . . .

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