Posts Tagged ‘zen’

I went fishing in Eastern Washington near Cle Ellum – the Teanaway. The most beautiful possible summer day – warm, not hot – astoundingly blue sky.  I live in Western Washington. The halves of the state differ by rain fall – it all tends to fall on the west – stopped by the Cascades – so that on east side the small river runs, as it would on the west side, cold, fast and clean, but it surrounded by banks of large needled pines and dry grass. There is an open understory unlike the crowded cedars, firs and drooping hemlocks to the west.

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.


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young rabbit

chewing leaves

under a wet weeping willow

7:04 am june 2, 2011

i get into my dry car

and go to work

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looking up

out the window

head tipped –

what does my indoor cat

think of the falling


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unwashed unsorted laundry
sink with dishes
piling up

to be wrote

can this string of words be more
beautiful or important
than a clean and empty

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removing my enjoyment of loving


i find love


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forgetting to look

doors open

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now autumn falls full
rain wet leaves
wind twirled twigs lie about
morning comes late and night comes early
i try not to anticipate
your voice
any more than i would

the spring

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what what is need
what want is want
when wants gets what want wants
is it a burden

when want is not get
want moves us

motivation exploration ideation

but when want is get and get and get

and no give away
too heavy
to have to hold

wanting getting
letting go
not grasping
holding ideas in

balanced equations

these lines

of words

table of solutions
tucked away safe

just fitted lines

a gesture of a brush
the whole of my experience shines

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when there is no thing

we share
we share


not the nothing of ease
not the nothing of freedom
not the nothing of carrying water
or cutting wood

but the crushing nothing
the no thing
of no line
to complete the other
of the poem

the nothing of

no pair
of parallel
to see myself
being seen
or to see
with mine

nothing of just me


seeing with these eyes
completing that verse
finishing those chores

the no thing becomes

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what is here
in front of me
clean and dirty laundry


throwing treasures to the floor
recorded music resonates

my sadness

if i think about detachment

don’t own the un-mated sock
or the dishes
in the sink –
if i don’t own the cats
clawing at moths

and ripping the screen

do i own my sadness

what is there
behind me

distinctly discernible
patterns of pain
expectations, explanations, reasons and rational
big because-es

do i own my past
my sad specters

what is here
in front of me

cloudy morning
cats moving inside
breeze outside
hear the summer
soak in the green
fractal and chaotic patterns

of living leaves

do i own my future
my sadness sits

i watch it
i will not will it

it moves
on its own time
no different than
the cats
the leaves
the breeze

the dishes

the clean and dirty laundry

the solitary sock

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