Today is also Chinese New Year. It begins the Year of the Dog. We were born in a Year of the Monkey and are, it would seem, a Wood Monkey. We sort of, almost, on a good day, fit this description of the Wood Monkey:
"Always ready to help others; compassionate, with strong self-esteem, but stubborn"Also today, we made a small breakthrough on a project we've been working on for some time. Several years ago, we managed to drift away from fly fishing. Since we've not been regularly fishing the flies we had collected, we've pretty much lost track of what the various critters living in our fly boxes are called, let alone what they represent.
one of several fly boxes whose occupants need naming
Photo by J. Harrington
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We all know that there can be a lot of power in naming. (We've had this knowledge reinforced as we've started to reread Ursula Le Guin's fantastic Earthsea series.) Thus, not knowing the real names of most of the flies we hope to fish deprives us, we fear, of some of their power to deceive trout. Today we discovered several online references that we believe will help us relearn those magical names. We'll share them with you in case you ever suffer a similar misfortune.
- Orvis freshwater flies flash cards (although some of the colors seem a little too intense)
- Field and Stream the twenty-five greatest flies of all time (a little heavy on streamers, we think)
- Fly Fishing North Carolina dry fly patterns (a pleasant surprise)
happiness can often be found in a North Country trout stream
Photo by J. Harrington
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There's even a poem, by one of our favorite poets, that is more than entirely fitting to go with today's pleasant events and the promise of more to come.
Happiness
By Jane Kenyon
There’s just no accounting for happiness,or the way it turns up like a prodigalwho comes back to the dust at your feethaving squandered a fortune far away.And how can you not forgive?You make a feast in honor of whatwas lost, and take from its place the finestgarment, which you saved for an occasionyou could not imagine, and you weep night and dayto know that you were not abandoned,that happiness saved its most extreme formfor you alone.No, happiness is the uncle you neverknew about, who flies a single-engine planeonto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikesinto town, and inquires at every dooruntil he finds you asleep midafternoonas you so often are during the unmercifulhours of your despair.It comes to the monk in his cell.It comes to the woman sweeping the streetwith a birch broom, to the childwhose mother has passed out from drink.It comes to the lover, to the dog chewinga sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,and to the clerk stacking cans of carrotsin the night.It even comes to the boulderin the perpetual shade of pine barrens,to rain falling on the open sea,to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
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Please be kind to each other while you can.
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