Small ponds dry up. The season, even the climate, changes. What happens? What becomes of the largemouth bass, when the temperature goes up? Or when beavers or the Corp of Engineers, re-route the stream on such as he? Big fish and those who resist change are vulnerable – poor dears! They can’t adjust. What made them grow big and dominate the pond has made them less and less experimental.
Fish, by the way, lack memories. Every 7 seconds, their focus readjusts to HERE AND NOW! Fish accept the things they cannot change (themselves, what feeds them, where they are) holistically. Therefore, fish don’t brood or worry. Nor do they exult. Those who resist change are not so lucky.
I was born in a small pond. I was a salmon, however, so I swam downstream. Then I became a bird. I had always known, in my heart, how it feels to fly, to perch high up, swim in the currents of the wind.
Perhaps, I never really was a fish. I might have been the larva of a dragonfly, born first to feed in water; later, to dart and gleam!
Whoever is a changeling has multi-faceted eyes and yet remains the toy, the trinket, of her fate, with all the rest. I like my life of vision and perspectives, reflections, poise. In 1958, I went to Patrick’s Point State Park at dawn. The tide was low and quiet and the light was gold. I made a prayer to God that people more like me would come to Humboldt County, and, of course, they did. And so, the gentle hippies, pot farms, VietNam vets, came to my mountains. Please be at peace! “Who do you think you are?”, an old white bass demands. (He’ll eat me if he can; that’s what he does.)
California is a lovely place for those who let it be, so don’t you fret or worry. Fly! (Be you bird or be you bug?)
Raven