Natural Order -- Journal Writing

Exiting the twisted throat of the river my horizon line explodes into view and is buried underneath morning clouds. I know the contours of the pond, can feel its depth, but for a moment think I am heading out to sea and remember what its like to stare into miles of gray, shades of blue, and rolling ocean. If I continued another ten minutes in this direction my boat would run aground, but unable to detect even the tall pines on the opposite shore, I indulge in my ocean-fantasy. I am master of my environment, time, and even place this morning.

The Jitterbug is drawn across the dark water to my fish-pole, dancing side to side, and tempts the creatures underneath until in frenzy from the sound or color, a pickerel accelerates through air and water, swallows and dives.

Barreling for weeds the fish hopes to anchor itself on the bottom, so I gently turn and keep the line taught; the fish dances and shakes its head in the air until exhaustion plays the beast on its side, subdued and won over.

I honor the struggle, the aggression that drives this fish to make two and three passes on the same cast. My urges to probe, seduce, and apprehend mirrors the fish that seeks, attacks, and devours. This pickerel and I are more alike than either cares to admit. At the edge of the boat, I gently release the animal to master its environment once again. This is right. This is true.

At the other end of this same day is my son who is almost four years old and has abandoned his training wheels forever. He pumps his legs and turns his bike in bravado, seemingly unaware of his new accomplishment; he drives the bike forward exploring his new world with freedom, master of his environment.

Maya who is little more than one clutches to my ring finger and races forward chasing her brother unconcerned with the impossibility of catching him. She giggles at the legs that dare her to race, that propel, that move her in ways only imagined; she is master of her environment.

**Writers: The idea that started this piece was "controlling one's environment," or maybe "understanding one's environment." This was spawned from a discussion with friend Eric Root. Try writing about one thing you do well, where you are in control. Why are you drawn to this experience? Why do you replicate these sensations? What associations do you make?

If something else sparks you to write, just share.