I took a walk through the woods today and saw the sheer beauty of carpets and carpets of bluebells. The woods were dark, but dabbled with sunlight and mystery. I had the distinct feeling of not being alone. The woods have that affect on me. When I’m in them I always feel I’m surrounded by presence. I have no language to articulate it. It’s not an ominous thing, just a mysterious and beautiful presence.
There’s something about the flow of a river that touches me deeply. As it winds its way through bright open fields, shadowy woodlands and jagged mountainous rocks giving life to everything around it, I always sense an urgency in it, even in its stillness, to ultimately find its rest in the all embracing love of the sea. Whenever I’m beside a river I think of the words of Norman Maclean who wrote, “A River Runs Through It.”
“Eventually all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”