6.18.13 Riverlove

I have begun adding posts of  frequent visits to the beloved Connecticut River at The Alexandra Dawson Conservation Area, at times only with the intent of sharing photographs of how the river looks today...how, in fact, this small slice of earth looks....today....in this one tiny place.....spinning in the universe.....in the midst of endlessness. Lest we forget the wonder of it all, versus needing to buy gas, go to work, take out the garbage, and use machines. There. RiverLove.

Done with seeing clients, it’s mid afternoon as I drive a few miles home from my office, whistle to alert the dogs as I get out of the car, change into mud/river/dog- proof clothes as they bustle about,  all of us waiting expectantly to go have an adventure on  the river.

Bundled into the car, we are off, palatable excitement…shifting paws, dog noises, til we arrive at the Alexandra Dawson Conservation Area, a strip of land following along  the Connecticut River for a few miles, a piece of heaven. This small area is an unintentional secret, just a block or so from Route 9 in Hadley, yet a whole wild world unto itself.

Rain it did  once again last night, and the ground continues through the day to be damp, the skies darkened. The old dog is no longer fond of the muddy areas of the path,  but instead, loves the slow aged meander, and the long, contemplative snufflings.   Satiated by her smaller stroll at almost 16, I return her to the car from her precious moment of pup-less-ness, and then release the impatient 14 week old German Shepherd for his ranging romp. Full of inestimable delight, he leaps into the grasses, discovers anew the blossoming of some neighbor’s peonies, pauses, neck craned as he eyes the wonder of  birds flying overhead, and relishes the mysterious experience of broad gusts of wind that pass us by. All the while, the powerful Connecticut  pulls round its ‘Honey Pot’ curve, sending sprials eddying as the urgent waters press by the firm riverbanks on their way.

Today all creatures that thrive on insects are happily filling themselves, the bright blue, cinnamon and white summer swallows streaming in wide, elegant arcs overhead, and then with remarkable agility, swooping across the waters, feeding themselves and their young. Many days, there is a grouping of thousands of young fishlets of one kind or another, traveling down en masse, their bodies not visible, but the circular ripples made by their evening gusto of dinner sprinkled all across the waters. It took me years to begin to notice these populace of the river, and I never know what type of fish either was released, old enough, or began traveling down with their own timing, at just the right moment in development for them to leave some small protected enclave and be large enough to survive the passage. So often, if you stand and look for the rippling, you suddenly realize the magnitude of the population of young fish being carried in the current, down down toward their destination. When I mention this to known and unknown fellow river visitors, they shake their heads in amazement, once the SEE the signs of the masses of young creatures, living quietly alongside  our own selves.

It is a quiet evening on the river, no Herons or Hawks today, even the Blazing Yellow Finch absent. When one visits one place, day after day, an intimate bond begins to form, together with the gradual knowledge of the cycles of the place; the movement and timing for each wildlife creature and plant, each that come and go, have offspring, bring forth leaf and bud and flower, all in a choreography of sustainable wisdom.  The herbalist, sea vegetable farmer,  contemplate, and writer Larch Hanson speaks of this as a ‘Sense of Place’, a part of life so essential and yet quickly losing ground in today’s fast funny life full of things to want and all distractions that have that capacity to keep us…from our own selves.

As an herbalist, I watch the lives of so many plants that, for themselves, hold various healing properties, and for humans and other creatures, have support they provide also, as each one comes into fruition and then, their time  spent, passes by.

As an herbalist, I watch the lives of so many plants that, for themselves, hold various healing properties, and for humans and other creatures, have support they provide also, as each one comes into fruition and then, their time  spent, passes by.

We reach the end of the path, and the pup stares at the sign blocking further access, a bit curious, a bit on guard with the strange object. I laugh, tell him it’s fine, as we turn about,  retrace our steps. A blustering June wind picks up, shuffling the grass heads heavy with rain, blowing through the trees lining  the ancient river bank, as The Connecticut  makes its age-old way.