As the remnants of the evening fog lift like a curtain on a broadway stage, anticipation builds in the show which is to follow.  The production of a new day has debuted. The sunrise on the branch brings to life the shimmering aqua crystals which dance across the surface like millions of brilliant strokes of light! As I stand and observe at the edge of the run, the reflections of my soul I can see in the tide. We are the writer, producer and director with a supporting cast ready to perform a story not yet told. Gc81119

As we traverse the years given to us, our memories, good or bad, provide the essence of who we are or yet to become. Thoughts flood through the catalogue of my memory bank and one experience makes me smile.

          I remember summers growing up on the Gunpowder River at the head waters of the Chesapeake Bay where I shared a homemade rowboat and a crabbing adventure with one very special person. My maternal grandmother, endearingly known as Minnie, was a jovial, loving soul, full of adventure and love with nothing expected in return.

          Excitement filled the pre-dawn morning when we were scheduled to caste off the pier laden with bait and hemp string in search of the tasty Chesapeake blue crab. Grandma would have prepared fried bologna sandwiches as I loaded the boat with dip nets and baskets. Unless the weather was blowing a gale, my Grandmother would not be deterred from going “chicken necking”. To the many readers who grew up along the shores of the Chesapeake or other coastal towns the terminology in this story may be familiar. Chicken-neckin’ as it is known involves attaching a piece of chicken neck to a weighted string line which were known as handlines.

I would navigate the boat by oar to set up several hundred yards offshore into deeper water and drop anchor. Handlines were pre-loaded for quick deployment and the nets and baskets were at the ready. Then….the wait began for the all-important “tug” on the string from below which indicated the crabs were aware. At that moment this was all that meant anything in the world to me.  To see the excitement in Grandma’s eyes and having her give the command to “man the net” was pure heaven. Although excited, I do admit I was scared to death if I was not able to land dinner!

Grandma would position herself on the mid-ship bench and tend eight or ten handlines. As a seasoned pro she would handle each line like a virtuoso violinist. I believed that she could tell if a crab had taken the bait even before the crab would. Her patience was both a way to catch more blue crab as well as a lesson for me. Once a sizeable catch had been retrieved and loaded into the basket, we would weigh anchor and head for shore to prepare to steam the feast. It would be an afternoon of anticipation until we sat at the picnic table with a mound of crustaceans ready to be enjoyed.

Many similar adventures from my memory could be written and fill countless pages but usually one single adventure provided the life lesson which to recall. Patience, humility and love were displayed that day and have lasted a lifetime for me. Hold on to the simple pleasures in life for they end up meaning the most.

With the dawn presenting an amber hue on a summer morning, a solitary fisherman casts a line to the surface of a shimmering lake. A fly lands on a familiar landscape and the saga and search for the future continues with anticipation of a fish rising. As evening pollen pools on circular rings, the fly sits with graceful repose, high on a crest and the hungry population below is poised to move on the morning hatch. The fisher has used the perfection of nature to entice a repeat action. A thunderous explosion ignites the adrenalin of the guest who so perfectly has imitated nature in his creation, a perfect disguise to tempt and rise, fueled by instinct and power. He has cast his knowledge and gives thanks to stand immersed in healing waters and to be one with the life blood of the earth.

To the bait caster this is a healing moment. One cannot be closer to his spirit or his creator than at this very moment.

Countless tides have flowed beneath this venerable structure. The homestead which once sponsored this horizontal memory has been reclaimed by these same tides.

The hours of travel along the old wooden planks are etched in the footprints of our memory. This forceful structure held the happiness of a family and friends who were born on the water. They lived above and below the waves and their lives moved with the moon. When the tide slowed they reflected in the goodness of this retreat and gave thanks to the tidal gods. When weather provided an awesome challenge, this pier stood strong and deep. Made of wood and steel and designed by a true craftsman, it still to this day marks the greatness that was built in. No tide could command its will against it. Memories, like the tide, still flow under this wood and although the originators are in spirit, they still find time to sit at the end of the pier, dangle their feet above the waves and raise a toast to the Old Gunpowder Pier.

Life is a blessed quiet at the dead end of a road surrounded by the mystical life of a marsh. My love and I sit in the center of this gentle innocence as we long to stand tall as a marsh reed in obedience to nature’s unity and structure. We are so blessed with sight to behold nature’s treasures, our hearing fuses with the symphony of sounds and feelings to embrace the winds that surrounds my existence. Sunset casts shadows behind the cattails like vertical stewards on the creek. The flow of the creek only rests on the momentary reversal of tides. It is a rural collection of activities by God’s creations. Red-wing black birds light softly on the reeds. Catty-dids and tree frogs own the vertical world. All of this on a southwesterly wind which settles before the disappearing sunlight. The musings of the cicadial choir, altos and sopranos throw their voices in octave of pure delight. They communicate as a social order lending their voices on the morning breeze. The soft melody of clicks and clacks are musical notes carried by the wind, celebrating through their vibrations the excitement of the order. Finally, the guttural cry of a blue heron as its wings cast a shadow on the creek, gliding with stealth above the spiritual flow of the incoming tide. It is as if the spirit of the branch has summoned all to enjoy the serenity of the moment.

Beyond the blacktop the artificial meets the real world.The dirt lane leads to a world beyond the fence line, where summer’s leaves create an afghan of color on the forest floor.A heavy fog on a crisp October morning descends like a cover on the dawn and under the soft contours of this cover the sunrise readies to produce a fire in the sky. Reflections of soft shadows drink up the sunlight and present a unique fingerprint on the morning. We are compelled to pause and admire the sheer magnificence and power of the world, beyond the blacktop……

The forest’s heart beats loud under the hibernation of a winter’s cover. A foreshadowing of barometric proportions has foretold a late winter’s event which would encase all of mother-nature. Polar temperatures descend upon the wintery landscape and hold the dawn hostage as the sunrise attempts to spell the morning chill. White crystalline fields and snow-tipped cedars were tipped with confectionary perfection. Tracks of life left from the evening become visible and provide knowledge that the movement of life in the woods has direction and purpose. Linear paths move up and down the mountain, crossing other well-worn travels not unlike our busy lives. The warmth under the winter linens protects the spirit of each new season and the background cadence of the woods is the respiration of a sleeping giant.

To the hunter the coldest part of morning is the edge of dawn when the night releases its hold on the new day. It chills the body but not the soul. Adrenalin and optimism are his warmth and anticipation are the fuel of the hunter’s heart. Forgetting in the daily world the senses are reborn on the dawn. Like a maestro the sunrise brings and man and nature into harmony.

            Each morning I anticipate opening the window shade to a new dawn, the morning presents a spectacle difficult to describe. A soft, cotton-like layer of clouds lays stratified over the horizon. Having witnessed this autumn setting many times I can sense the forces unfolding. The sun, needing to occupy its rightful place touches the cotton clouds and expresses through the fibers of the morning. With prismatic accuracy the colors burst across the sky a kaleidoscope of brilliance witnessed by only the true believer of the dawn. Either by choice or necessity the meeting of the eyes on such a glorious event provides the soul with purpose. The sun emerges as if pulled by marionette strings above the crest of the hill, a welcome warmth to the visitor. One must forsake evening slumber to appreciate this scene for although repeated each day, this moment must be embraced as if the last. No one has reservation on this experience or life.

As a humble participant to this theater I choose to find solace in the dawn. My senses are heightened, sensitized to the smell of the damp, frosty morning, an aromatic combination of dying leaves, pine needles and withering fruits. The outline of a spider web cast the evening before is an engineering marvel yet to be duplicated, is highlighted by a frosty dew. The cold morning breeze strikes my cheek and form a ghostly cloud with each breath.

I am truly blessed for another day to relish in this natural wonder. As God has given me this gift once again I pass this along to others in hope they too may capture the true essence of being alive.

In the cathedral of hard woods the autumn turnover signals the settling leaves and once again the timeless travel to rest resumes upon mother earth. Rest signals the cycle to a new beginning. The decay of winter produces the bud in the spring. Cyclical season changes warm the heart and renew the soul. Endings are the new beginnings.

In the distance the smell of charred wood gains altitude from the valley floor as fall fills our soul and awakes our primitive connection with nature. A background cadence of the respiration of the forest holds audience in our ears for the forest is very much alive. All organic life prepares for winter’s rest when small crystalline messages from God’s usher will layer softly in timeless celebration.”

A walk upon the seashore is a walk with God. Every grain of sand supports who we are and where we are headed. Each grain reflects the multitude of thoughts and actions we experience. As the waves come and go, they rearrange the grains of sand, but they do not disappear. Our purpose is to remember that the thoughts we have in this life can rearrange our lives, but we are still who we were meant to be.