If you find yourself alone in the canyon for some time, you begin to reflect. You reflect on things that have past, things yet to come, things you wish you had changed and things you're glad you did the way you did, even though the outcome wasn't ideal. It is a different kind of being alone.
Sometimes, on quiet mornings, when the guests have not yet begun their water fights, you can listen. The canyon wren will play you her favorite song, the water will gurgle and sputter and whisper her secrets. The wind, if you are so unfortunate to be in her company, drowns out those sounds with a nonsensical white noise. At least it is nonsensical to me. I am sure that those who know the ways of the wind, those who listen closely to her voice, hear her secrets and her sounds. I have yet to listen to the wind, I can only hear her.
The river ebbs and flows, filled with the whisperings of the people. After being away from the river for awhile it is cleansing to be back. It flushes away the feelings, washes away the dreams that settled like sediment during the winter. And as with any rejuvenation old wounds are opened, new wounds are made, and the river flushes them, bringing the pain and the love and the dreams to the surface before sending them away, downstream. Maybe they will be caught in an eddy and found again at a different time. Maybe they are really gone, to be drowned in a lake or even washed to the sea. The only way to know is to continue on downstream.
Sometimes, on quiet mornings, when the guests have not yet begun their water fights, you can listen. The canyon wren will play you her favorite song, the water will gurgle and sputter and whisper her secrets. The wind, if you are so unfortunate to be in her company, drowns out those sounds with a nonsensical white noise. At least it is nonsensical to me. I am sure that those who know the ways of the wind, those who listen closely to her voice, hear her secrets and her sounds. I have yet to listen to the wind, I can only hear her.
The river ebbs and flows, filled with the whisperings of the people. After being away from the river for awhile it is cleansing to be back. It flushes away the feelings, washes away the dreams that settled like sediment during the winter. And as with any rejuvenation old wounds are opened, new wounds are made, and the river flushes them, bringing the pain and the love and the dreams to the surface before sending them away, downstream. Maybe they will be caught in an eddy and found again at a different time. Maybe they are really gone, to be drowned in a lake or even washed to the sea. The only way to know is to continue on downstream.