I did not get to fish last year but three times – my summer was taken up by other tasks. Not only that but the first time I did my car was broken into. Even this summer I have been occupied with getting my house ready to try and sell in the most depressed housing market of the century. I might not sell it after all…

So here I was at last, the tail end of July 2011, in welcoming waters – second cast and a willing cut-throat was on my attractor fly. So small I don’t even use my reel, just lay the rod down and pull the five inch fish in by hand – wetting them now that he is within reach to not disturb the ‘slime’ I pull the hook out with the forceps as quickly as possible. It’s been a very long time – but it’s all here in my motor memory – reading the water, walking in the river, reading the water again, casting, watching the float, looking for what might be a strike and setting the hook. I don’t even have to think. My mind goes blissfully blank as I walk, cast to likely places and catch and release beautiful fish. They are mine for a moment – we meet and separate. I am the Zen master of my thoughts while fly-fishing.

But when I’m back to my day to day routine I often begin to feel  that life is so dismal and I wonder if I want to live at all. I’ve found the transition very difficult from the sublime times of doing anything so engrossing like fishing or working on my art, riding my new bicycle or going to my dance class. I enter that state where the self disappears – the state of flow –where the activity is greater than the self and I am at peace because there is no me. But again, coming out, then there seems to be only me and that great sense of pointlessness and that leads to depression and even suicidal thoughts.

My therapist suggests that I try to remember on the river how the me actually feels – kind of ease the transition back to my awareness from the state of flow – go into the wonder of fishing, but not leave my troubles too far behind else the pain of picking them up again will feel too great.

I got to a deep pool – not very big – but deep. It was at the bottom of a small fall. I had only about ten feet of distance for the float before the fly would come to a log that I didn’t want to hook – the presentation had to be just right in the fast water – I might get three or four chances but that would be all.

I didn’t really have to think too much about it – I just knew how to stalk this unseen fish, to position myself in the river to approach the sweet spot where he would be feeding in the seam of the current – I worked my way down the opposite riffle so I could fish upstream a little – that would create the least drag – and just cast. It was all perfect, the hook set and the rod bent.

I reasoned it must be the speed of the water that was causing the pull as I got this fish on the reel and played him right and left pulling him in towards me and walking towards him where the line was in the water so I could get him out quickly and return him safely.

As I got closer I realized the pull was not the current – it was a fairly large fish! I played him into the slower water so as to not hurt him and get a good look. Most of these trout fit easily into my small hands but this one was fat. I laid him out in my hand from finger-tip down past my wrist. Then I let him go.

Now a nine inch fish might seem unimpressive, indeed, I’ve caught a seventy pound tarpon on a nine-weight fly rod, but that was in the Everglades and this cut-throat was a very large trout for this river and felt like a prize. Like something precious had been given to me. But I considered it was not effortless – how long have I spent on these small rivers? I’ve been fly-fishing now twenty-four years – and sixteen of them on shallow sweet small rivers, rivers that an unassuming and short woman can wade safely. I had the skills. I own them, they are part of me.

So I was glad for the fish too numerous to keep count of that day. But I did as it was suggested and took time to remember – to take into account the things that were making me feel sad so that these disparate realities could be true at the same time. And it was a good thing. The wonder of my fish and the automatic way in which I found him had no less glory. Nor did the pain of my everyday life away from the river grow any less woeful – but the gap between them began to close.

enclosed day turns dreamy night
yet, birds sing
outside
still light

this music
played through life-times
notes and rests
melody and themes
intended images and dreams

now in audience
tactile, tangible
in time

your real
hearing
witnessing mine

beyond belief

my footfalls on the poach
send him
flashing figure eights
iridescent bottle green
around the yard

i turn my key

currents of cool
or warm and wetter

embrace me
june’s breath

chewing leaves

under a wet weeping willow

7:04 am june 2, 2011

i get into my dry car

and go to work

This tall tree

dams the river where it fell

across

gravity

pushes pulls a new

path around

water’s weight and

flow

prevail

2

tiny

rufous hummingbird

repeatedly throws itself, thumps

against nest’s nearby windows

fearing self’s reflection

as other

repeats

protective instinctive reaction

towards self-destruction

or

must

move away and turn, turn

turn a new direction

3

finally May first

the earth inhales the sun

relaxes

- no longer

stiff contracted and protected from

the cold and dark -

branches release their reserves

exhaling

leaves and flowers

4

cleaning my house

i let go

the weight of

too many

precious possessions

to protect

possibilities abound

in

clean and empty space

5

May sun

high noon

breaks bright through grey clouds

reflections

refracted off water drops

hanging

saturated segmented serrated

needles and leaves

wet

concrete ground

each layered surface shining

enlightened

before the rain

returns

washing the world

dull without dimension

rainy day may

confetti’d  with apple blossoms

eight o’clock

sunday, april 24, 2011

the daylight almost gone

my window

half glass

half mirror

face floating in the cedar

bedpost in the fern

chandelier hangs from budding branches

dusk dark lines

sprawling up

against the lambent sky

that

a poem should hang

like a mobile

as the words twist

about

in juxtaposition,

but always in

balance.

my sliver vase

spiraling green sword
leaves
five days after

stems pulling water
overextended reaching
still growing
twisting towards April light

pale petals
opening, revealing
gesture gently
tips flushed
blushing crimson

soft kiss of spring