...There's a magical spot I visited this morning, and do nearly every day. It's a nestled away stretch of the creek I live by. It's really city territory, but there's this tucked away spot where sometimes a homeless person will find and hide out in for a week or two, or the rich homeowners will take their dogs for a month or two but then get out of the routine because they can't stick to it. You have to pass under this long sagging tree branch shaped like an arch way to access it. I'm not kidding. It's sharp cuts in rock enabling channels of runoff water to gather in a long deep pool at the end. In drought it gets still and nasty. Even at its grossest, you see a turtle climb out of there on to a log or rock. For a few weeks this summer there were about a thousand tadpoles in there working toward toadhood. It took one big rainstorm and only about a few dozen made it and turned into these tiny toadlets, smaller than the pad of my thumb. I put one on there and possibly altered the course of that little guy's life forever. But animals seem to get over traumatic events better than people. You know what I mean? There's also train tracks that run along this neighborhood and they are the perfect distance where you can hear the train whistle clearly. Any louder would be a disturbance, but it's at a distance that feels soothing. I've been going for eight years, but in a routine way for two or three.
This morning it was flowing something fiercely magical. I vaguely remember some three in the morning thunder crashes last night. It was a restless sleep and it was all mossy and drippy at the creek this morning. It got me alert. I get to visit with my head there. And then listen to it and trying to slowly ease out of it. Sometimes I gather around some other point of pain or passion in my body. Sometimes my chest just wells up with something personal. When it rains the night before it's easier to leave my head because you can concentrate on the sounds of water flowing by. It feels drippier. Like I said, it was flowing fierce this morning. Sometimes I open my eyes while sitting there and I imagine that the rock face underneath the water is what's moving and that the water is perfectly still. Doing that helps me levitate. Then I get up and say thanks and sprint back home. When I'm running I pretend like there's a hawk chasing me, a vulture circling me, or a crow guiding me somewhere, depending on the day. I've seen all these types of birds there before and they have stayed with me. I know them well by now. I usually go to the creek after a jog so I'm good to go for sprinting--in running shoes and red basketball shorts. When I get back home I proceed to sink into Conor Jensen's life again, but it feels sweeter.
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