Russ's Creek

Tempus Fugit

So much happening just now. Bill and I have lost aged loved ones to time and eternity. We ponder our own mortality as we move into their places as the older generation, wondering how time could slip by so swiftly and wanting to make good use of every moment. This generation that is/has been passing, born into a Depression, took on the duties necessitated by a world war, both at home and far away, unhesitatingly, unflinchingly, witnessing deprivations and devastations we can only imagine. And, somehow, they came through it all with dignity and perspective. I have never met finer men and women than they. Bill and I were too young for Viet Nam and are too old now for the Middle East conflict. As such we've led spoiled, easy lives. Perhaps we may yet redeem ourselves through other gifts; only time will tell.

Thoughts on Love

In the shuffle of daily life, small matters often seem much larger than they are. We see the vine rather than the tree. But if we think about a day, just twenty-four hours, compared to the millennia of human existence, we see that day is even less than a grain of sand. In the bloom of romance, the beloved can do no wrong. Individualities are seen as charming aspects of personality. When the fragrance of newness dissipates, the same charm may seem less alluring. The odor of sameness creeps in. We may think, “I don’t have to put up with this!” The aspect of a new romance may enchant us, but we dream. If one follows this imagining to fullness, one goes through the same notions: bloom, charm, and then the sameness creeps in, and this time those quirks, individualities, habits, may be slightly different. But they are there, the small matters that loom between two people. They are inevitable. Two people are never completely alike. The adage reads, “Familiarity breeds contempt.” It should be added, “If there is no love.” If I say I love you, I do not cast you off because you become too familiar. I do not try to change you although I may try to change me. I love you for who you are. To think that some people perpetuate this cycle, running from one romance to another, discarding the old for the new, the sameness for the fresh, but the perfume is the same. And the risk is a life of loneliness or of constant running from one individual to the next. Every idea, emotion, every relationship has its cycles. We can cast off one idea or emotion or relationship when it works for us no longer, or we can remold it to what we want. We can try patience, for it may change of its own accord, following its natural course. If the dolphin failed to swim with the currents, it would not travel far. 1 Corinthians 13 1 If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 3 If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. 4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8 Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. 9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10 but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. 11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. 12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. 13 And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. Here is wisdom for the ages.

River Gifts

As I knelt on the riverbank, rinsing the bowl in the icy, amber water, there flashed before me an image of other women who had performed this same ritual over the millennia of human existence. How simple an act to rinse a bowl. How little that matters truly changes. In that flash of insight, I connected with women past, present, and future. In a moment, all the hurly burly of present life was reduced to essentials.

I saw my friend tamping out the remaining coals of the campfire when I returned from the river, the last few wisps of fragrant smoke disappearing among the cypress and pine trees. Golden sunlight, the crisp, clean light of early morning, streamed through the leafless winter forest. One task remained in breaking camp--packing our belongings in the canoe for the trip home.

I am wistful that our trip along the Black River of South Carolina is winding toward its close. A last lazy pull of seven miles is all that separates us from the primordial and reconnects us to the twenty-first century. Scenery changes quickly on the river as we paddle from one topography to another. Not ten minutes into our excursion the close, solemn bluffs of the swamp transform to steep cliffs of exposed white marl layered against orange clay. Cypress trees by the water's edge and tall oaks and hickory trees along the upper cliffs yield a forest fragrance mixed with damp, brown leaves and green moss covering tree branches and rocks.

We paddle closer to examine the marl and see scallop shells and an ancient oyster bed preserved in the limestone. The river has eroded parts of the exposed marl, creating shelves that clearly indicate climatic conditions affecting the earth's layers. Once again, I sense the antiquity of our planet and my life seems a mere speck in its history.

Horizons

It was a fitting irony that the only student I met when I dropped off my room key and ID badge at the main office of the school was Denardo. He was the student who had the most difficulty staying in school, getting along with teachers and peers, and, as such, became my favorite. As usual, he arrived five minutes after the first bell had rung and was late for homeroom.

"You take care of yourself. You get through this," I said to him as I shoved my emotions to the background and walked toward the exit.

"Wait! Where you goin'?" he asked.

"I've left the school." I replied.

"You mean you quit? Why?"

"It didn't work out for me. But you make it work for you, okay?"

"Okay. I will."

He looked at me with disbelief written across his face. In truth, it mirrored what I felt in my heart. The fact that I had walked out of my classroom two days ago raging, "I quit," still hasn't registered in reality for me. All my life I'd wanted to teach, loved my work, and identified myself as Teacher.

Closing the car door, I took a deep breath and turned the ignition. I drove away knowing that I was leaving a huge part of my life behind and was facing the frightening task of redefining my life and who I am.

God Bless the Children I Have Loved

God bless the children in my care,
And then as they pass everywhere
Across the seas, beyond my reach
God bless the children who I teach.
May they recall the lessons learned
When they were young, when they were small,
And may those lessons yet return
To help them now when they are tall,
When life gets hard to face and too
When love is lost and friends are few.
God bless the children I have known;
God bless the seeds which I have sown.

The Letter

Dancing down
the castle steps,
down through darkness,
now and then dispelled
by squares of golden sunlight,
through the coolness, and the musty damp
of tapestried halls,
she hastens to the light
like a lark in spring--

Leaving the towers and town behind her,
she follows a meandering path
that leads beyond
the commerce of the village
to a woods,
grasshopper green,
not dark and shadowed,
but slivered by the shafts of sun
which streak the ruby damask of her gown--
She pauses once to listen
to gentle winds which ripple through
the leaves and play upon her mind
a soothing melody.
Then, on again, more quickly,
she seeks her destination,
now within her sight:
a wall of stones,
once carefully placed
by some ancient race
that held with rituals of the moon
and incantations.

She too moves like a priestess
of some ancient rite,
carefully lifting the heavy stone,
stealing shyly the folded missive
from her bodice,
pressing it warmly to her lips
a mere moment
before placing it beneath the
smoothness of the stone.
Her happy laughter seals the spell,
and she runs like a deer
through the green morning.

kathleen l. smith
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