A Day of Gratitude
River rock crunches a familiar tune under my rubber boots. Across the river, the occasional car sweeps by with a whoosh of white noise. The current calls out, joyous and full, its usual gem-like green, slightly muddied with the wash of recent heavy rains. The air rings sweet with the smell of decaying leaves, their spice-like aroma beckoning to a world of microbes to join them in concocting nourishment for the next generation of growth beyond the crystalline, sacred geometry of Winter. Toby the senior beagle, runs ahead, his guidance led by instinct and smell. At almost 16, he’s blind, deaf, and showing signs of canine cognitive dysfunction syndrome, so basically he’s an old, disabled, and crazy little beagle, but he’s still loving life and living it to its fullest. In the moment, breath by little beagle breath.
Sweetness in the air, the land nourished after several months of record low precipitation. To the east, giant swathes of forest torched in another devastating forest fire season that’s now led to the reality of ‘smoke’ as a seasonal weather phenomenon here in the Pacific Northwest. Breathing in deep, it’s all so perfect, this thing we call Nature. Despite her magnificence, human beings have managed to abuse her in every way possible, our egos driving the narrative from need to want and the ideology of never enough, a shining badge of honor and something to which we’re culturally conditioned to aspire.
Toby hops through the thick carpet of fallen leaves, his little bandy legs still spring-like and agile. I blurt out loud, “CUTEST DOG EVER!”, my voice cracking in the morning mist and probably way too loud. I’m astonished how this little dog can be so damn entertaining after all these years. He’s taught me so much and the love I feel for him is indescribable. I’ve been rehearsing his passing into the cosmic field as I know his days are numbered, but that’s life. From the minute we’re hatched, we’re dying. I swear every time I take a higher dose of the Sacred Mushroom I think he’s on his way out — thankfully, it’s a loving, accepting feeling of connection and gratitude for his Being, not one where I’m calling canine 911 while hopping around on 3 grams of Golden Teachers. The little bugger is a gift — in every sense of the word.
We round the corner to access the small beach area on the river’s bank. Toby sniffs and grunts, picking up stories from the scents found between the rocks. My eyes fall to the ground, scanning the beach for stones of interest — those with patterns, textures, colors and shapes that might express some mystery. The variety seems endless and I wonder if they are like snowflakes or human beings, each being a unique expression of matter in this conscious experience. I feel their energy and their Consciousness, tumbling around for millions of years, and witnessing the genius of life and evolution unfold before their stoney gaze..
I look up from the ground to see Toby sniffing at something intently and yell at his little deafness to stop but it’s too late — he’s found the rotting carcass of a spawned salmon and the instinctive drive to cover his scent is too much — he drops into the jelly-like carcass and does a deft, acrobatic flip and roll, grinding his little, lumpy body into the dead fish. He’s very pleased with himself and I’m just grateful I had the good sense to build an outdoor shower with hot water, because it makes beagle cleanups so much easier.
Toby is done with the fish and goes about his sniffing, now confident that whatever little animal might cross his path, will not smell him coming. Laughing to myself, I gaze across the river. There’s a fisherman casting from the shore on the other side and the morning light catches his line as he flicks the lure out into the rushing current. I think about the fishing rod I just bought and my hesitance to spend some time angling.
My thoughts drift off to my Dad and his love of fishing, remembering like it was last week, me a scrawny little kid, riding atop his shoulders on the hike down to his steelhead spots, the forest wet and cold with winter rain. The hike down this way was like an amusement ride as my Father’s strong frame eagerly bounded down the mossy trail to the rushing river and the chance of hooking one of the elusive fish. He loved fishing and I think about how much he would have loved this place — this little cabin on the river, this place where he could throw out a line in the backyard. Maybe my hesitancy to commit some time to fishing is just too close to him? Maybe I haven’t fully processed his loss and all the things I wish I could say to him? Maybe the pain of not having this amazing man as a loving guide and mentor through everything I’ve been through is still too fresh? Even though he’s been gone for 45 years, the true grief I feel from his loss is barely a year old, the tidal wave of pain and sadness erupting spontaneously during a deep session of entheogenic shadow work, and through it, remembering what he means to me and how grateful I am to be his son.
Emotions pass through me and cast themselves on the rushing river as I return to the now, tuning my awareness to a chorus of tiny birds, calling out to each other among the fallen leaves. Breathing in deep through my nose, the crisp, fragrant air filling my being, then exhaling long and slow through the mouth I rest, lungs nearly emptied, eyes closed, taking almost imperceivable breaths as I tune in to the sounds in the present moment. The river’s energy flows through me, her nurturing love charging my prana as I open my eyes and pull myself back into this consciousness.
Toby has returned from his little stroll and he’s looking at me like it’s attention time. I’m just about to give him a hug, forgetting about his sashay with the spawned salmon, until the wind shifts and I catch a whiff of his eau de rotten fish and remember his earlier stunt. With a creak in my knees, I rise from the sand and shuffle up the bank with one very stinky, little dog in tow. We pass through the community area and across my neighbors’ land to my place, then turn back to the river and head toward the beach area on my lot. Floods the previous year deposited mounds of sand in various places and one such deposit landed right where my lot rests, and so through a week of high water, Playa de Flujo was born.
Plopping myself down in one of the chairs in the sand I look out across the river and see the fisherman has a bite. Silver flashes glint on the water’s surface as the salmon crests in its fight for survival. The man pulls back on the rod and as it arches deep toward the river, it suddenly bounces back hard and straight, the line snapping and the fish off to live another day, although likely with an unwanted and painful barb traumatizing the poor animal. Maybe that’s why I haven’t thrown a line in yet?
The land around me, this place on the river, this land so blessed with glacier green waters, ancient trees and the lightness of the clean air and quiet — it’s also a place of beauty and tragedy, of birth and death and of stolen lands and broken promises. My consciousness shifts to the place I call home, my mind’s voice referring to the land as ‘property’ and I recoil, knowing there is no way to claim ownership of the Divine. With Nature swirling around me and holding me in her magnificence, I’m overcome with gratitude and tears begin to flow like the green river before me. Standing there on this land on the river, not a property owner but a steward of this little biome for which I am responsible. I feel a duty to the loving attention to Nature’s delicate balance and aim to leave a legacy of reverence for Her many wonders, perhaps inspiring future families, communities, and generations to follow a similar path. This land isn’t mine but it is my responsibility and the grace it provides is a gift of ineffability and awe.
Blubbering away with gratitude on the river’s edge I’m sure I make quite the picture. For the casual onlooker, they might perceive a lonely, old man, sobbing tears of suffering or regret for a life not lived, perched next to the rushing current, pondering a plunge to a cold, rushing death. But my tears hold the infinite love of gratitude, for this breath, this heartbeat, for this gift of Consciousness and the journey of awakening from darkness. My tears are pure joy and flow from a heart blessed with awareness and humbled by awe.
Turning and taking the path back up to the cabin, I wipe away the tears with the sleeve of my flannel and think about paths and the many different paths we encounter throughout our lives, each fork determined by that tiny moment between stimulus and response. Stepping forward beneath the thick mossy embrace of the giant maples, I follow the path carved into the sacred land, humbled by my tiny but significant part of the endless expanse of Consciousness and the eternal grace and beauty of Love.
Gratitude to you, dear reader. You are my Brother, my Sister, my ancestors, and a Divine expression of infinite, eternal, and creative love. Thank you for reading!
