Welcome to the archive of past blog entries. Blogs are entries, sort of like journal entries, made by supporters of Spreading Roots, Spring Forth. Opinions stated here are copyrighted and solely the property of the individuals voicing them.
Following lines of memory
Drops of water line up on the underside of branches
Catching light, balancing forces of gravity and adhesion.
One muscular push and the whole world groans, shakes, spits.
Mountains rise. Volcanoes erupt. Species emerge, diverge
and go extinct. Rivers fill and dry. Ice breaks and flows.
New channels are carved over bare lava beds.
What once existed only in the roundness of lakes,
now falters and flies to the open, passage of rivers -
the long stretched throat going, going, going
the way of the geese flying over.
Something emerges and struggles to find its way
through the tumult - toward a vastness of belief -
dodging rough, immense logs, dark, sharp rocks
flitting through quiet deep pools, flip-flopping over
shallow gravel and mudflats, drying out in hot, summer sun,
gasping into death, pushing on with rain,
rushing and filling gills with water.
Two branches touch, and the drops spill from one
to another, traveling.
Salt comes. A simple taste - rich, and satisfying.
Then, abundance, clogging the membranes.
There is waiting, then, while the body
adjusts to the magnitude of sorrow.
Everything that came before
is here: where one body
mixes with the other body,
where one body gives way
to another.
There is nothing to do
but wait here.
The skin changes, gills transform, attention shifts towards the sea.
Everything is possible: the breadth limitless, the depth huge.
The water is filled with food. Waves chorus: “Eat. Eat. Eat.”
Days pass. Seasons pass. Years pass.
Seaweed sing lullabies. Whales echo.
Everything is content. The water passes over:
always present, always gentle, always full.
Then a storm begins to brew,
subtly, inside the body.
The seaweed, suddenly, is too soft,
the ocean too easy to navigate.
The questions crash fast and hard:
+ there is always food, but who can live on only food?
+ where is the satisfaction in always being satisfied?
+ what meaning exists in this clammy place?
The wind cries offensively, and does not answer.
Something smells awry.
Then, a riffle comes, carries a fresh scent
a memory from far away of water that is sweet.
It is enough to break the spell.
Every day is spent searching for the way to get back.
Every waking moment spent following the shoreline.
There is no need for food now.
There is no time for lulling about.
This urgency is final.
Then – a break.
The muscles respond, fluttering,
the smell is intoxicating.
Swim! Swim! Swim!
It is all there is to do.
Up past the briny embrace.
Up into the clear, sweet river.
Up towards the rocky unknown.
The most frightening thing is the absence of fear.
The constant push forward allows nothing but attention.
Moving in one direction. Moving up.
The water cools and grows fierce.
Boulders appear. Trees appear. There is a bottom
to the world, filled with particles of sand and rock.
The rocks shave off scales. The trees snag at soft gills.
Bears with sharp claws shred tail and fins.
Once, in a dream, you are lifted
into an excruciating place
blinded by light and piercing air
rising high between wingbeats.
You fall onto a warm, hard surface
heave endlessly in utter exhaustion,
until, finally, flung back to water by a strange,
chattering creature, you continue. Upwards.
Always onward and upwards.
There are others beside you. You notice them now.
Brave and powerful. Striving upwards like you.
Then, you see them flowing off to the side - into a channel.
You follow. It is like nothing you have seen before -
Branches reach towards water, spilling rain
on the backs of fishes: silver, streaming fishes,
multitudes of fishes.
It is all the places you have longed for.
You will never leave, again.
The tiredness of your bones has given way.
There is something you must say to this place,
something your body has to say here.
Down on the river bottom, you slap out this story
working patiently, steadily. The rocks turn over, sighing.
You rise to the surface, hover above a white stretch of
beauty,
dark back towards the sky, nose pointed to the mountain.
Your white belly sings to the rocky belly of the river.
A flash of silver illuminates your eye.
There is no rehearsal. He is simply there.
Your heart shatters
** bright, luminous drops of fire
** filter through milky clouds
** fall between stones
There is nothing you love more
Than the gold buried here.
You never see it again.
You never leave it.
-Ariana Kramer
Copyright 2003
You may have wondered why The Dirt email issue has been mysteriously silent these past few weeks. Suffice it to say that our main edirtor since lo 'o 1999 has been swept up in the midst of a bit of celebrating life-wise with family. Sunlight dappled the trees against a bright blue sky after weeks of rain in Northern Maine. Children played near a clear, calm lake at dawn, calling ducks to swim closer. Stars at night dipped their toes in the water and reflected upon loons' calls. A campsite and a lovely gracious rural inn nestled in trees near the foot of mountains that start the Appalacian Trail welcomed travelers from around the world. Harvey-ther-dog wandered freely among guests gathering pats on the head. A bouquet of wildflowers. Edible pansies and nasturtiums from her mother's own garden decorated the cake (home-made by said mother, lemon poppyseed by the way!) Luminarias lit the way after dark and illumined a path towards dancing and celebrations into the wee early hours of the morning.Guests rested between songs on benches made of hay bales and thick planks of wood pulled by father from an old bridge now put to a new use. Many blessings.
