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The Walking Prayer
Thanksgiving. Savanna, Sirocco, and Mom did dishes together. “Just me and my big girls!” Mom said, pleased and truly thankful for it. Perhaps she was remembering a time when they were her little girls.
The rest of us went for a long walk. Dave said, “Remember when we helped resurface the bridge?” I said, “Yeah. We’d hit those huge nails and they’d go Ping! and fly into the river.” “That was fun,” Dave said, “But the bosses got a little angry with us.” I said, “I suppose. Forty cents a nail?” “Forty. A buck forty. Something.”
We crossed the bridge. The rest of them were behind us, and I remembered the satisfaction of hurling stones from up high into the water. Such a splash. I started telling Zeke how my brothers and I used to…Oh yeah! We did it, too! “Yes,” Zeke said, “we did.” He had that wry look of being right, much softened by the fond memory of rock chucking. Casey, Sydne, and Kora totally need to do this. I ran to the rock pile – field stones, from plowing times, and now, somehow, beautifully, the field is a prairie – and shed my long black coat, quickly filled it with many big stones, and lugged them to the bridge. “Whatcha doing Uncle Dan?” “We need to throw these rocks.” The three little girls all went “Yeah!” and scrambled to get them out of my bulging coat. “Hold on! We need to get to the middle of the bridge, where it’s highest.”
They delighted in the ancient sport. I went back for another load. There’s nothing like an abundance of rocks for plunking into the river. There’s nothing like an abundance of Dave’s brine-soaked turkey, or Mom’s green bean casserole. Abundance of family, of gratitude, of love. Actually, even imagining abundance creates more of it, and there’s always enough.
We walked. Kenna told a hilarious story about a kid who wrote “poop” on the bathroom wall, with his own poop. She’s a good storyteller. The time passed nicely as we walked a long ways, to Plum Creek. I said, “We should find a place to cross the Cottonwood, come full circle up behind the house.” We went that way, Zeke and I blazing a trail through the tall grass and the newborn trees. Kenna and Marna each stepped one down, and the springy wood leaped back up and smacked them in their patooties. I never heard that term before, and laughed. Deb called it a puna. A what? A puna. Oh my gosh, what a family.
I looked to the left, and not ten feet away, Darin was strolling on a truck path. In many, many ways, my brothers are smarter than I am. Sydne and I made our way out of the wild, picking the preacher’s lice off our coats. A challenging game.
We tramped into the woods. When I thought of the crossing to come – an uh-oh thought, because probably there wasn’t one – the cautionary words were still coming out of my mouth when Marna lit up like Christmas and said, “Yeah! Let’s do it! It’ll be an adventure!” So. We had to then. The excitement spread. We all tramped into the woods but came to a dead end. “Back! Back!” she said, “I think I saw a place on the creek.” I tried to argue against that idea, because we’d still need to cross the river later, but it was like pushing upstream.
We came to the place. Two trees in the creek, rotting, one on each bank, with a gap of dark water between them. I might have seen, dimly, the face of my sister Dawn floating below. Dave, Dad, Deb, and I stood on the bank and watched while the log on our side was quickly conquered by the adventurers: Darin, Sara, Casey, Kora, Kenna, Kelsi, and Sydne, with Marna in the lead. Four different feet got wet in short order, but tears compassionately sunk before they could surface, because – hello! – we’re on an adventure. “And besides,” Marna said, “your feet will get numb pretty soon and then you won’t even feel it!”
The gap. The dark water. We meet these places so many times in our lives. Are they really so scary? So intimidating? When Zeke, turning away, said, “I’m going up to the house,” I felt a little sad at first. He’s my boy forever, and I so very much wish and pray that he will cross over to his strong, destiny-desiring adult self. Soon. But he will, you know. He had cold hands, was taking care of myself. My self? Why did I write that? I suppose the dark gap frightens everyone, if only a little.
Himself. Sara said, “That’s pretty cool. You know, he never would have set out on his own like that a year ago.” And it is true.
We had the advantage of numbers, and energy. They began grabbing sticks and small logs while Darin threw them into place. Not the poop stick, though. One log, decomposing in the mud, had soaked up the worst of Plum Creek as if it the wood was a filter for bad water, catching chemical runoff and the rank juices of dead animals. It smelled nasty. So they threw the poop stick aside like a bad memory. I remembered taking the time to build roads on the carpet with my kids, lining up the good books we had read. The bridges were tricky but we kept at it, eventually figuring out that if you open a book and lay it face down, it makes a great bridge.
You can see why beavers get so busy. Maybe it’s not a life or death situation for them, the way it is for other animals, because they’re creating something grand and – even though the sticks are twisted – beautiful. When we are in the flow of creating, we don’t even… no, we can’t even think about the danger of drowning. Two feet of water doesn’t seem bad, but remember: We are genetically programmed to be aware of our potential deaths, however subconscious.
They were building a bridge. Balto quickly got into the game, his Labrador nature pulling him into play. By the time the third log splashed into place, he was there, happily swimming. He gripped the biggest one with his teeth and began working it out. What a huge and wonderful game of fetch! The moment he began unbuilding the bridge, every one of the adventurers shouted, on cue, on pitch, baritone to soprano, “No!” Balto seemed to be grinning. “No Balto! Stop! Oh no!” And then it was a frantic, barely balanced race. It was, how can I say? It was… it was lovely, and, and freeing, to hear Dad laugh so hard and so much. Deb stood with her mouth open, partly tired from surgery recovery, partly astonished. “I bet you had no idea,” I said. “When you married into this family, you couldn’t even imagine what you’d become a part of.” She said, “No.”
But there was a Yes in her response, too. Why not? How not, when so much youthful energy, Dad’s included, was overflowing the banks?
Sara shed her clogs to get better footing. She threw one towards the opposite bank but it flew straight up. Balto went to fetch it. No he didn’t. He turned at the last moment and grabbed another stick. We laughed.
They made it. Even Sydne braved the crossing. Casey cried a little, frozen, fascinated by the mental certainty of falling into the water. We’ve all been there. I held her hand and insisted that she look at Marna, look at Marna, who knelt on the muddy bank, holding out her arms, and asking, “What’s the very worst thing that could happen? (Death.) “I’ll fall! I’ll get wet!” “Yes, just like when you go swimming.” She made it, and was happy then. Proud. Her one tear glistened like the star she was born under. I touched it with my index finger. We all went into the woods, pretending to get lost, and Kora yelled “Help!” over and over, between giggles. Later, when we crossed the river on a huge safe tree, I led Casey again, and pretended to be scared of falling. “Help me!” She laughed and held my hand, “helping” me cross over. She did help, you know. I collapsed into Kelsi’s arms, sobbing with melodramatic relief. Kelsi has kind arms.
While we walked the long trail back to the house, we spotted the others on the road. We have to beat them! We have to run now! We did run, of course, all the way back to our family home, back to safety and our normal lives. The story ends there, right? Does the story really end there, or ever?
Earlier, before dinner, before the big adventure, I read to my daughters while they puzzled the pieces, making flowers and birds and sky. The passage I read was about coming to an understanding of a spiritual life, a life steeped like calming chamomile in the endless waters of gratitude. I almost cried, remembering reading to my three little ones, my babies, snuggled in the safety of my voice, and how we learn to walk, crossing unforeseeable bridges to the unknown to know ourselves and each other again, forever and ever as long as we live. Amen. Namaste. All My Relatives.
The rest of us went for a long walk. Dave said, “Remember when we helped resurface the bridge?” I said, “Yeah. We’d hit those huge nails and they’d go Ping! and fly into the river.” “That was fun,” Dave said, “But the bosses got a little angry with us.” I said, “I suppose. Forty cents a nail?” “Forty. A buck forty. Something.”
We crossed the bridge. The rest of them were behind us, and I remembered the satisfaction of hurling stones from up high into the water. Such a splash. I started telling Zeke how my brothers and I used to…Oh yeah! We did it, too! “Yes,” Zeke said, “we did.” He had that wry look of being right, much softened by the fond memory of rock chucking. Casey, Sydne, and Kora totally need to do this. I ran to the rock pile – field stones, from plowing times, and now, somehow, beautifully, the field is a prairie – and shed my long black coat, quickly filled it with many big stones, and lugged them to the bridge. “Whatcha doing Uncle Dan?” “We need to throw these rocks.” The three little girls all went “Yeah!” and scrambled to get them out of my bulging coat. “Hold on! We need to get to the middle of the bridge, where it’s highest.”
They delighted in the ancient sport. I went back for another load. There’s nothing like an abundance of rocks for plunking into the river. There’s nothing like an abundance of Dave’s brine-soaked turkey, or Mom’s green bean casserole. Abundance of family, of gratitude, of love. Actually, even imagining abundance creates more of it, and there’s always enough.
We walked. Kenna told a hilarious story about a kid who wrote “poop” on the bathroom wall, with his own poop. She’s a good storyteller. The time passed nicely as we walked a long ways, to Plum Creek. I said, “We should find a place to cross the Cottonwood, come full circle up behind the house.” We went that way, Zeke and I blazing a trail through the tall grass and the newborn trees. Kenna and Marna each stepped one down, and the springy wood leaped back up and smacked them in their patooties. I never heard that term before, and laughed. Deb called it a puna. A what? A puna. Oh my gosh, what a family.
I looked to the left, and not ten feet away, Darin was strolling on a truck path. In many, many ways, my brothers are smarter than I am. Sydne and I made our way out of the wild, picking the preacher’s lice off our coats. A challenging game.
We tramped into the woods. When I thought of the crossing to come – an uh-oh thought, because probably there wasn’t one – the cautionary words were still coming out of my mouth when Marna lit up like Christmas and said, “Yeah! Let’s do it! It’ll be an adventure!” So. We had to then. The excitement spread. We all tramped into the woods but came to a dead end. “Back! Back!” she said, “I think I saw a place on the creek.” I tried to argue against that idea, because we’d still need to cross the river later, but it was like pushing upstream.
We came to the place. Two trees in the creek, rotting, one on each bank, with a gap of dark water between them. I might have seen, dimly, the face of my sister Dawn floating below. Dave, Dad, Deb, and I stood on the bank and watched while the log on our side was quickly conquered by the adventurers: Darin, Sara, Casey, Kora, Kenna, Kelsi, and Sydne, with Marna in the lead. Four different feet got wet in short order, but tears compassionately sunk before they could surface, because – hello! – we’re on an adventure. “And besides,” Marna said, “your feet will get numb pretty soon and then you won’t even feel it!”
The gap. The dark water. We meet these places so many times in our lives. Are they really so scary? So intimidating? When Zeke, turning away, said, “I’m going up to the house,” I felt a little sad at first. He’s my boy forever, and I so very much wish and pray that he will cross over to his strong, destiny-desiring adult self. Soon. But he will, you know. He had cold hands, was taking care of myself. My self? Why did I write that? I suppose the dark gap frightens everyone, if only a little.
Himself. Sara said, “That’s pretty cool. You know, he never would have set out on his own like that a year ago.” And it is true.
We had the advantage of numbers, and energy. They began grabbing sticks and small logs while Darin threw them into place. Not the poop stick, though. One log, decomposing in the mud, had soaked up the worst of Plum Creek as if it the wood was a filter for bad water, catching chemical runoff and the rank juices of dead animals. It smelled nasty. So they threw the poop stick aside like a bad memory. I remembered taking the time to build roads on the carpet with my kids, lining up the good books we had read. The bridges were tricky but we kept at it, eventually figuring out that if you open a book and lay it face down, it makes a great bridge.
You can see why beavers get so busy. Maybe it’s not a life or death situation for them, the way it is for other animals, because they’re creating something grand and – even though the sticks are twisted – beautiful. When we are in the flow of creating, we don’t even… no, we can’t even think about the danger of drowning. Two feet of water doesn’t seem bad, but remember: We are genetically programmed to be aware of our potential deaths, however subconscious.
They were building a bridge. Balto quickly got into the game, his Labrador nature pulling him into play. By the time the third log splashed into place, he was there, happily swimming. He gripped the biggest one with his teeth and began working it out. What a huge and wonderful game of fetch! The moment he began unbuilding the bridge, every one of the adventurers shouted, on cue, on pitch, baritone to soprano, “No!” Balto seemed to be grinning. “No Balto! Stop! Oh no!” And then it was a frantic, barely balanced race. It was, how can I say? It was… it was lovely, and, and freeing, to hear Dad laugh so hard and so much. Deb stood with her mouth open, partly tired from surgery recovery, partly astonished. “I bet you had no idea,” I said. “When you married into this family, you couldn’t even imagine what you’d become a part of.” She said, “No.”
But there was a Yes in her response, too. Why not? How not, when so much youthful energy, Dad’s included, was overflowing the banks?
Sara shed her clogs to get better footing. She threw one towards the opposite bank but it flew straight up. Balto went to fetch it. No he didn’t. He turned at the last moment and grabbed another stick. We laughed.
They made it. Even Sydne braved the crossing. Casey cried a little, frozen, fascinated by the mental certainty of falling into the water. We’ve all been there. I held her hand and insisted that she look at Marna, look at Marna, who knelt on the muddy bank, holding out her arms, and asking, “What’s the very worst thing that could happen? (Death.) “I’ll fall! I’ll get wet!” “Yes, just like when you go swimming.” She made it, and was happy then. Proud. Her one tear glistened like the star she was born under. I touched it with my index finger. We all went into the woods, pretending to get lost, and Kora yelled “Help!” over and over, between giggles. Later, when we crossed the river on a huge safe tree, I led Casey again, and pretended to be scared of falling. “Help me!” She laughed and held my hand, “helping” me cross over. She did help, you know. I collapsed into Kelsi’s arms, sobbing with melodramatic relief. Kelsi has kind arms.
While we walked the long trail back to the house, we spotted the others on the road. We have to beat them! We have to run now! We did run, of course, all the way back to our family home, back to safety and our normal lives. The story ends there, right? Does the story really end there, or ever?
Earlier, before dinner, before the big adventure, I read to my daughters while they puzzled the pieces, making flowers and birds and sky. The passage I read was about coming to an understanding of a spiritual life, a life steeped like calming chamomile in the endless waters of gratitude. I almost cried, remembering reading to my three little ones, my babies, snuggled in the safety of my voice, and how we learn to walk, crossing unforeseeable bridges to the unknown to know ourselves and each other again, forever and ever as long as we live. Amen. Namaste. All My Relatives.
Where Plum Creek meets the Cottonwood River, just southwest of the Larry & Patty Wahl homestead.
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| Chicken Coop for the Soul - printable |
posted 10 June 2013
