Lazy, meandering streams in urban parks,
Mountain torrents, arising from the never-ending trickling melt of glaciers,
Tumbling rocks and pebbles, conferring unexpected smoothness.
Forming rivers flowing to the sea.
Ponds of every description and size,
Glassy with ice, or shimmering in a summer’s breeze.
Life concealed below a thin molecular skin of nature’s essential fluid,
Flitting, and flying, and buzzing above its surface or skating magically on it too.
Even Thoreau’s Walden, a pond eloquently shared, implanted in my mind.
Shores of oceans, lakes and seas, bounded by rock or sandy beach,
Waves gently lapping sometimes crashing at my feet.
Timeless rhythm of ageless music,
Sounds continuous and regular, marking the pulse of wind and tide.
Telling tales of far off places to all who listen.
Canoe’s prow cutting the surface, gliding smoothly, quietly, leaving no scars.
At the helm of a trawler, playing with tides to gain favor, charting a logical course.
Avoiding dangers of reef and rock, negotiating treacherous passes into mysterious fiords.
Fighting wind and wave, arriving safely into port.
I’ll venture out once more when all is quiet.
These are the waters of my life, whose very existence runs a thread through time,
Speaking as they did to Siddhartha and Vasudeva the ferryman before him,
Whispering, laughing, roaring and crying, teaching me patience, marking my allotted time.
Flow without resistance, becoming one with all they touch.
In these ways, I have become like water.
L. Alan Weiss (www.lensofemptiness.com)