By That River

When someone is searching for something, they don’t allow themselves the time to see what they have found.  To search means to have a goal.  To find means to be free, to be wild, all the while lacking a goal.  When searching—the goal is all our eyes set themselves upon—unable to see anything else, let alone allow a liberating thought into the mind. We become obsessed and lack the ability to see what we are looking for with any lick of clarity.

When I started this blog, I was searching for meaning in life.  It was my way of harnessing the thoughts and the self-imposed crises that I stared in the face everyday—and weave them into a form of inspiration.  I thought that maybe I had the ability to turn my life around by volunteering my own self towards my own dream, and that it would trickle down amongst the rest of you.

But above all else I started writing again to leave my child with a piece of me, a bit of my wisdom, in case if I ever found the Pearly Gates a little earlier than God or I had planned.  I thought maybe, just maybe, I could turn things around for his future, because in my self-assessment of the shit that surrounded me, I thought the future was doomed.

I continued to search high and low for any clue as to what happened to love, where did love go astray, why was it such a mystery that hatred—amongst humanity—was leaving love in the dust? Both spread like wildfire, so who was the arsonist responsible for the blaze set upon Love’s wilderness?   Someone is always responsible right?

But in that search, I got lost.  I was looking with inelasticity upon myself, as well as all that I saw.  I was looking too hard at the extremities of my surroundings, instead of finding what was inside of me.  I was looking at the inside from the outside, almost like I was stalking my own self.

I was willing to take the pilgrimage of my own self but never eager to get down and dirty with what I might find.  Instead, I would often drown what I found in a bottle of whisky and flush whatever goodness I did find, down the drain of disbelief.  I have done this more often than not since I last spoke of the Zen In Zest. As this whole derogatory approach to my dream has taken an inconsistent shape, shaking itself dry, with one line at a time, I still see the dream, and now I know the approach in which I must take. I will leave you with a little story ladled with love.

The other day I took my son to one of the places that my heart calls home.  It’s one of those places that you don’t get to see everyday but when you do get to see it, the quaint feeling that touches your heart has an effect that ripples through the soul for an eternity.  It’s the river on which I learned to fly fish; sometimes it was more rambling about from rock to rock with my head in the clouds, fly stuck in the trees kind of fishing.  That was years ago though, and it was those same years ago that the very wound in which still burns within was smote upon this river.  We will not talk about that wound just yet.  This story is about healing not suffering.

As we came to the river, I felt something, it washed over my entire being—the hair upon my arms became stiff as though they had suffered from electrocution, or they were simply being industrious with progress while reaching for the sunshine.  After scaling the surroundings much in the same way a wolf, protects its pups, I noticed no signs of impending danger, and allowed my child to run wild.

I sat down upon the banks of that river and stopped listening to my self and allowed the river’s flow to take my reflection with it.  My senses became sharp with the subtle swelling of green, while summer’s coming surrounded us, the clarity of the water with its fine granules of sand lingering between my toes pushed my thoughts to the memories I carry around from my childhood.  I remember the happiness I felt as I child after spinning in the sun all day upon the Gulf of Mexico.  I felt the same granules of sand between my toes and the sunburn that followed. I remember my mother’s smile, my little sister and her bewildered gaze at the first sight of seeing the ocean.  Everything in this moment was so gentle, pure, clean, and most important it was real.

We were by that river for so long that time must have stopped.  I rested with folded hands, while listening and watching him explore his new surroundings without searching for anything particular.  I started to see things in a way I never thought possible. I started to understand through his eyes, that he was teaching me more than I could ever teach him.  He didn’t set himself upon any goal, at least not that I am aware of, he just wanted to know what it was like to be brave, he was grasping his wild and I must admit that I shed a few tears.  After I pulled it all back together, I started to pray, or meditate; both are one in the same.

I prayed for those that I love, those that I know are in pain, and those whose hearts are filled with hatred and division.  I prayed for him and his future.  Then I moved on to myself and as I was pleading for some kind of sign, a clearing of the brush, so to speak.  Then it came again—that sensation.  It was accompanied by a reverberation; my soul felt like an electrical current was sending shockwaves through my entire body.  Everything tingled and my mind disappeared.  It went floating away with the timeless current of the river. Everything was silent, except for the river.  The swiftness and churning of a rushing river had moseyed into the solitude of a babbling brook.  My senses were reeling with the smell of the river, the scent of wildflowers, and the heat from the sun, all coming together into the oneness of refined awareness.

The wound inside slowly started to blossom, my soul ripened with the realization, or the knowledge, as to what wisdom was in all of its actuality.  I had reached the goal of what seemed to be a never-ending search.  I began to see that wisdom is nothing more than the alacrity of a soul, a gift, a secret art to think in every moment, while living life—it is the experience of oneness, to be able to feel and breathe in that oneness.  As this was blossoming within, I opened one eye and there was my child inches from my gaze, he was staring, smiling at me, like he knew that I was becoming conscious with inner harmony, and grasping the knowledge of eternal perfection.  As I came to, he looked at me with eyes that I seem to have known my entire life, my own.  Out of nowhere, he said to me, ”Dad I really love you, but we must move on to next place now.”

The love I spoke of earlier had not disappeared but had become stronger with a new awareness.

My child had become my teacher in the blink of an eye.

BeLove © 2018

 I dedicate this song to the older him.  Happy Father’s Day out there to all you Dads.

My roots are buried in the Dirty South. I grew up learning the importance of God and Southern Charm. I began writing in my late teens mostly through heartbreak and music. I moved out west 15 years ago and live right around the corner from the Fountain Of Youth. Most people refer to it as Lake Tahoe. I play Chef during the day and search for ways to save the world by night, through reading, writing, and believing. I enjoy the side of life that is less abrasive. I look forward to joining you on my quest through Spiritual Sobriety with the Promised Land as our ultimate destination.

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