Today I lingered on the banks of a traveling river. It meandered through the valley--our meeting place--slow and steady; as if it were catching its breath after a turbulent ride down the mountain. The peaceful water drifted by with the notion that it had no particular place to be--very unlike its hasty decent from those craggy peaks in the sky. Now the end was near. The sea drew close and called it home. The river will come to the delta of its life and then rise into the clouds and be reborn. But there, in that moment, our paths intersected and I was transfixed by its elemental beauty.
The water absorbed color like a precious stone--deep, alluring, and filled with light. I dipped my feet in the current and felt its strong yet gentle hand urging me to come along and join its journey. In appearance it was friendly and inviting, but icy fingers constricted my ankles and pins and needles pricked my toes. I refused to withdraw, knowing that the discomfort would eventually concede to numbing neutrality. Blistered and battered, my feet had become estranged from my hiking boots; the water was holy and healing.
The boulder that I chose as my perch was smooth, flat, and wonderfully warm. I leaned back and let my head tilt up towards the vast sky. Our faithful star and an occasional burst of beating wings were the only color that splashed the endless expanse of blue. I shielded my eyes, defending them from the brilliant light that had travelled an impossible distance through space and time to penetrate that rock, those peaceful waters, and my upturned face; a gift from the cosmos. Flowers--a type of lupine, I think--danced around me, animated by a gentle breeze. I closed my eyes. The chime of tree limbs rising and falling and the subtle sweetness of grass, flowers, and the fertile earth filled my being. I drifted along with the wind and the water.
I fell asleep, or perhaps it was a deep state of meditation, where ever my mind was lingering it was called back to the present by a low hum that grew in audibility. I opened my eyes and I saw him. A flash of black and yellow, a bumble bee. He orbited around my head once, twice, three times before landing on my corral-colored t-shirt. The little wanderer must have thought he hit the jackpot with his discovery of a strange enormous flower with roots that extended into rock and water. The fine, sticky hairs on his legs clung to my shoulder and I watched as he tasted the cotton fabric with his unfurled proboscis. Yuck! Duped but not daunted, he levitated skyward like an Apache helicopter and buzzed away--continuing on his quest for nourishment.
New Zealand is a feast for the senses. Especially for one whose senses are as starved as mine. When our LC-130 landed in Christchurch my heart soared and I floated off the craft and past five months of longing. I cannot tell you how many times my mind has drifted north; towards thoughts of moving water and falling rain; big, bright botanical thoughts; and thoughts of burning color and cool darkness. Reminiscences of life.
There are rewards that comes with severe deprivation. The things you miss most become more beautiful when regained. The sun feels warmer as it bronzes the skin. Fruit hangs from vibrant trees, swollen with extra sweetness. And the birds' voices trill with unmistakeable fervor.
I am romanced by nature. I fall in love with it again and again. Every time I step off that plane a humid lilac-scented breeze embraces me and I swear I won't go back; I'll never leave the moon, the trees, and the life-giving soil. But I am a haunted woman. My ghosts are made of snow and ice and they moan like the southerly winds. They are with me where ever I go; following me north, towards the heartbeat of thriving lands. There, Antarctica calls me by name and beckons me to return.
I keep moving, but my journey is unpredictable, even to myself. Tonight I am communing with the stars--my old friends--as they migrate across the sky; their light burning holes in the darkness. Tomorrow, who knows. I may find myself in a valley or rushing down a mountain; flowing on and on until I smell the salt in the air and hear the gulls' cry.
Just another traveling river.
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