A philosophy for the times

Late yesterday I started playing with some of my fly-fishing gear. Today the Better Half [BH] provided navigation to Bob Mitchell’s Fly Shop at their current location. (The BH has been to the current location before but I hadn’t.) My speculation yesterday was correct. Spending some time in a fly shop further perked up my drooping spirits that had started perking while playing with a couple of reels yesterday. It’s reassuring to be reminded that, although it may seem so on occasion, winter in the North Country isn’t actually interminable and there are things to do to make it more passable.

From what I read, this year may well be a tough one. As a way of enhancing my self care activities, I’m going to focus more on fly fishing’s enjoyment and experiences. Previously, we’ve shared our admiration for John Voelker / Robert Traver’s Testament of a Fisherman [below] from his wonderful Anatomy of a Fisherman.

Testament of a Fisherman

The perspective in Testament is, I believe, a healthy one for any time and the more difficult the times become, the healthier that perspective becomes. I have drifted too far from appreciating all that’s involved in the concepts above and hope to spend this year adjusting course. Perhaps you might want to consider something similar? If we don’t take care of ourselves, we’re not much good to much of anyone. Although I didn’t buy anything today at the fly shop, the selection of flies I don’t have and haven’t fished made me feel like the proverbial kid in a candy store. That’s a feeling I want more of and am not likely to get scanning the headlines.

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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