TroutLegend

C omplicated winds made crossing hands across the small dissection of my urban back yard. Staring through the double pained door I watched high currents tickle at our sole Oak Tree while the struggling sounds of ascending steam triggered my coffee addiction. Heavy eyes fumble for half & half, eggs, and a bagel. Soon the car is packed and I’m following the instinctive path of byways and highways that lead to my destination. Many trees are bare now and the crisp transitional air of autumn is settling into the long freezing winds of winter. There is a light dusting of icy snow covering the faded grass. It is Sunday morning. On side streets there are gazelle like figures swathed in tight black adornments trotting to the morning sun. At stoplights I see a few zombie like figures dressed in corporate uniforms staring blindly past coffee cups toward stoplights waiting for orders. Other vehicles house cute little families prim and proper set forth for high steeples.

When I find I’m filled with nervous energy. When I’ve been locked in an office staring at a computer screen all week and I’m beginning to bite at fingers and loved ones I head to a Trout Stream as a Gym. I jump into waders, strap on cleats, and run as an athlete set over hurdles. I aspire to catch & release trout at a frantic pace. I crawl, and slither, and jump. I wade through un-wade-able water without thought of self preservation. Time is kept on cycles of hours with a stop watch. Elbows are raw, knees are bruised. Then I do it again. And again. And the pace is kept until exhaustion expels every daily thought from mind. There are no worries of yesterday, nor plans for tomorrow. My body and mind are at peace living solely in the “now”. I have cleaned the slate and I drive home a better man for it.

Then there are times when it is not the body that needs retuning, but the mind. Those times when relationships flair and goals of life lose focus. In these times I head to a Trout Stream as a Therapist. Now is not the time for athletic assertion. I work at a slow pace and often talk out loud. I sift my way through riffles and glides and ask the great questions. And little by little I find some answers. Invariably those answers are merely about letting go. Letting the reasons that I’ve built up for not being fulfilled slip away in the current of a stream. Letting go of pride. Letting go of anger. Of jealously. Of self doubt. Letting go of each little mask until I am left with nothing. With nothing weighing me down I have cleaned the slate and I drive home a better man for it.

But then there are times when neither the body nor the mind stand at risk, but indeed it is the soul that pains. When our loved ones pass from this world to the next. In these times I go to a Trout Stream as a Church. I often put my gear on, but only fish here and there. Many hours are spent lazily walking through cobble stone graveyards staring into the sky. When an appropriate rock calls my name I will sit for a time. And caress the rushing water with tears. Many questions are asked, but no answers are ever found. Only silence. A deep silence made up of a 1000 little sounds. Trees swaying in the wind. Water finding its course over pebble and slate. Birds fluttering here and there. A deep silence which says nothing specific, but provides solace. This slate can never be cleaned, but some how, some way I come to be comfortable with the dirty writing and I drive home a better man for it.