Time to walk on water in the North Country

Sun’s out; sky’s blue; temperature’s in single digit. Fairly typical North Country winter day unless it’s snowing. Most of the trees are still encapsulated with snow. Parts of our road might as well be on the Gunflint Trail, although Duluth got lots more snow than we did the past few days. With all the hills up there some sledders must be really happy.

I’m starting to do my usual routine of getting agitated because I’m not completely in charge and I’m not sure folks are following my “suggestions” regarding who should get what for whom. Then again, I didn’t believe that yesterday the Vikings would pull off the biggest come back of all time in the NFL. I’d claim that the cold is going to my brain, but I find ways to tie myself up in knots in summertime too. I believe I’m an imperfect perfectionist, which  isn’t the same as a double negative being a positive.

The preceding paragraph provides a classic example of why one of my Christmas presents to myself, and those around me, is rereading and folllowing wabi sabi. Another present, of a similar nature, is to take more closely to heart John Voelker’s Testament of a Fisherman. May we all enjoy tight lines, but not too tight, from now through next year.

Testament of a Fisherman

In case the text above is hard to read, here it is as plain text:

Testament of a Fisherman

I fish because I love to. Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly. Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape. Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing what they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion. Because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed, or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility, and endless patience. Because I suspect that men are going this way for the last time and I for one don’t want to waste the trip. Because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters. Because in the woods I can find solitude without loneliness. … And finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant and not nearly so much fun.

— John Voelker, a.k.a Robert Traver, Anatomy of a Fisherman 

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun. 

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