It sounds like the weather this weekend is going to be classic early autumn perfection. I’m sooo excited. I intend to spend as much of my time outdoors, immersed in Mother Nature’s embrace, as possible.
Sometimes we all need to just unplug from everything. The call to disconnect is strong at the moment. Given that I’m mostly water and electrical impulses myself, perhaps I’m as desperate for a ‘reboot’ as are my iPhone and laptops on occasion.
Where better than my go-to source of replenishment? Ah yes, my Tohickon Creek.
As I approached her today, the roar of her voice drowned out everything else, including my thoughts. I wish you could hear the sound that accompanies the photograph above. The rushing flow coursing down the argillite bed of this ancient waterway is almost intimidating.
Photo: L. Weikel
Not For Some, Though
Multicolored kayakers took advantage of the cascading water whirling and swirling over and around the boulders scattered along the bed of the creek. I’m not the type of person who usually takes vicarious pleasure from watching others do something adventurous or fun. Nah. I’d much rather be doing it myself.
But I have to say, I felt exhausted simply watching these athletes paddle furiously simply to keep themselves from being flipped by the coursing water. And even though I knew (or hoped) they knew what they were doing when their kayaks did flip them upside down, I caught my breath every single time it happened.
Photo: L. Weikel
Balm For My Soul
A hawk screeched relentlessly in the woods just behind me as I took the photo, above, with the rainbow arcing overhead. A few minutes later, I saw it (truth be told I’m not sure it was the same one) circling overhead.
The message I discerned in the cry of that hawk was, “Come home. Sit a piece. Let yourself just be.”
I managed to snag about 30 minutes beside my beloved Tohickon Creek earlier today. I love to sit there and write whenever I have a chance. But some days I just end up sitting and staring at the water as it flows and tumbles around and over the rocks. Today, while I was staring at the page as opposed to the milieu, I glanced up and noticed swirls and ripples in the water where it’s usually quite calm. Leaning forward, I gained the first of my two creek sightings today.
The first creatures I saw were these two deer. They must have descended the rocky forested hillside and crossed the one lane road just behind my car. When I leaned forward to see whether the ripples were being caused by something above or below the water, I saw these two tromping and splashing through the creek.
I took a little video of them, but I don’t feel like posting it on YouTube. So the still I took of them once they got to the other side will have to suffice. They looked to me like they were just past fawn-age, teenagers perhaps – and they were certainly acting the part – playfully clattering their way to the other side. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world.
Spotted Sandpiper
The other one of my two creek sightings today was what I am guessing was a Spotted Sandpiper. It’s the best identification I can come up with. It definitely reminded me of the sandpipers I used to see running along the beach up on Cape Cod, when I was a kid.
But I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sandpiper around here before.
Nevertheless, from my Peterson’s app, it looks like it’s at least a possibility. They apparently do tend to enjoy hanging out in environments such as creeks. But it seems to be getting a bit late in the season.
I’m a little frustrated that I couldn’t zoom in on it any better than I did. It is tough to see its markings. The way it ran along the rocks and into the shallow parts of the water did remind me, was reminiscent of what I believe were Lesser Sandpipers (at the Cape).
I’m grateful to have experienced these visitors today. I feel lucky to have shared some precious moments with all three of them.
I managed to get to my usual spot on the Tohickon today. I’d been precluded yesterday by a “road closed” sign, which I’d assumed was erected because water continued to overflow the creek’s banks making the cartway impassable.
Apparently that was not technically the case.
Well, I suppose that could’ve been true yesterday; certainly from what I found at the spot where I usually sit and write. But there was more to the story.
Uprooted – Photo: L. Weikel
Unstoppable
There’s something deceptive about the nature of water. It seems so pliant somehow. You know: it flows and goes aroundthings. But you know what? Water is incredibly powerful and persistent. Yeah; it may choose to go around things if given the opportunity. It’ll yield.
But block it entirely? Stand in its way? All bets are off. It will get where it is going. It can be relentless and unmerciful in its determination to proceed toward its destination.
As you can guess, it was that unrelenting determination that created the situation causing the ‘road closed’ sign to remain in the middle of the road today. (Yes, I went around the sign. Carefully.) The fact that I saw a local pickup approach me from the other way indicated I’d probably be able to get through.
I’ll admit, though. I was shocked that my sweet, sweet Tohickon had ripped up the road’s macadam and hurled the massive chunks into the guardrails. But there it was.
Detritus Measurer – Photo: L.Weikel
Astoundingly Deep
I navigated the crater and got myself to the place beside the creek where I most often sit. I drove very slowly along the road that parallels the Tohickon. The roadbed was mud covered and littered with piles of small stones and larger rocks. Massive branches of trees and actual logs were strewn haphazardly on both sides of the swollen, still-raging tributary.
Across the road from the creek, dead fish dangled from limbs of uprooted trees that hadn’t been there before the storm.
It took me a moment to realize just how much the Tohickon had risen in the storm and its aftermath. But there it was, beside the uprooted bushes. A leafless skeleton of a tree stood like a sentinel beside the roiling water. Flood detritus (leaves, grasses, and some trash) continued to cling to this pole, leaving evidence not only of how swiftly it had been carried but also how high the water had reached.
I felt my stomach lurch. The evidence reached well over 7’ above the creek’s current surface. I stood in front of the tree for comparison. It was hard to comprehend both how much water had to have been barreling through where I stood and how quickly it had come and gone. For some reason, it seemed especially difficult to convey with my photos just how astoundingly deep, wide (and wild) my creek had become during the storm.
But there was the proof.
Do not underestimate the relentless power of water.
Aqueduct in Point Pleasant, PA 2 Sept 2021 – Photo: L. Weikel
Filled to the Brim
No matter where you look, it seems we’re filled to the brim. Our creeks and rivers are overflowing with water. Our forests are filled with the hot fury of fire. Our hearts are filled with shock, rage, fear, and hopefully, equal or greater measures of love, compassion, and hope.
I don’t have a lot to say tonight.
I’m always amazed at the brilliance of the blue skies the morning after a storm of great fury, be it a blizzard or a hurricane. Your average, run-of-the-mill snowstorm or rain event can come and go and the next day the skies may retain their cranky gray visage. But not following a storm of great consequence.
Just like a mother who has bitten her tongue one too many times, Mother Nature occasionally unleashes the accumulation of atmospheric energy and clears the decks. She withholds nothing. She lets us have it. And then, forgiving and forward-looking, she lets it all go and moves on. The sparkling clarity left behind is her gift to us.
A reminder that no matter how dark and furious things can get, the sun does come out again. The skies do clear. The air once again becomes breathable and invigorating.
Tohickon Creek at Point Pleasant – Photo: L. Weikel
Around Us
I only ventured out a few miles from our home today. So many roads were – and remain – closed. I’ve yet to get a glimpse of the Lenape Sipu (Delaware River). But I did manage to sneak a peak at where my beloved Tohickon Creek flows into the Delaware in Point Pleasant.
It looks like the power of the Tohickon pulled some boards off the aqueduct that crosses over it just before the creek merges with the river. Just standing on the bridge to take the photo, I could feel the power of the churning waters below me.
As can be seen below, water simply cascading down the hill without a discernible path to follow pounded the roadway so relentlessly that it caused it to buckle.
River Road, Point Pleasant, PA – Photo: L. Weikel
Carrying On
It’s shocking to consider that we were only hit with the ‘remnants’ of Hurricane Ida. My mind reels at the plight of those who were scathed by nature’s fury not only here – in devastating loss of life and home – but even more so in Louisiana, Mississippi, and elsewhere down south. I cannot imagine enduring temperatures where the heat index is reaching 107 during the day and yet there remains no running water, no electricity (and therefore no air conditioning), no lights at night, and little hope of anything being restored anytime soon.
How does one carry on in that situation? Blue skies surely can’t be enough. Or maybe they can be. When we’ve lost everything, maybe blue skies – and the intangible hope they reflexively bring us – are precisely what our souls require.
Tangle of wildflowers & white butterflies – Photo: L. Weikel
Tributary to a Tributary to Tinicum Creek – Photo: L. Weikel
Green Again
My post last night was ‘hot,’ I know. It’s upsetting to contemplate just how out of balance Earth’s climate is at the moment and how much worse it may become in a very short period of time. As a result, I’m proffering this collection of thoughts and photos to counter the images of a burning planet from last night’s post and to bookend it with the cooler, if not also troubling, content of the post from the night before last. In short, I’m back to green again.
My walk the other day along a secluded and seldom-traveled road that meanders along the haphazard twists and turns of a creek bed was deeply restorative. It’s hard not to feel the juiciness of life being replenished when surrounded by so many shades of emerald, lime, and forest green.
The burble of water tumbling over a rocky streambed comforts me and brings a deep sigh of peace to my soul. I probably don’t need to tell you, those of you who’ve stuck with me on this 1111 Devotion journey, the number of times I’ve been consoled by the creeks that surround my home (but especially, of course, my beloved Tohickon). I doubt if I can ever express my gratitude for ‘life’ leading us to this particular place to raise our sons and cultivate our marriage.
Rocks and Moss – Photo: L. Weikel
A Pause
I’m tempted to take this post in a direction I wasn’t intending when I began writing this evening. That would be the direction of railing against fracking and the intrusion of pipelines near and through the land I love so much both here where I live and also in Northampton County and across the Lenape Sipu (Delaware River) in Hunterdon County, New Jersey.
The devastation to our natural habitats by companies feeding the climate change that’s resulting in unprecedented flooding, wildfires, and drought is supported by the highest court in the land. That’s hard to accept.
Those very same forces are demanding that we return to the Jim Crow era of our country’s history.
But perhaps I should just go back to taking a pause from it all. Let’s take a moment instead to revel in the simple, abundant beauty of the many shades of green in our world.
You See a Cascade – I See Two Stone Beings- Photo: L. Weikel
Stone People
Oh how I love my Stone People. In some ways, I think I love them even more than all the Cloud Beings. And we all know how much I love – and relish discovering – them, especially on our walks.
There’s something much more substantial about Stone People, though. Don’t roll your eyes. I mean beyond the obvious – although there is a truth to the whole granite vs. water vapor comparison.
I think what I love most about Stone People is their staying power. First of all, it often takes a substantial chunk of time to create a decent Stone Being. Granted (it took all I had not to write “Granite”), a Stone Being could be created or revealed in one fell swoop of an event. But usually they’re molded and created by sustained bombardment by the elements over vast swaths of time. That’s why they are most often considered (or should be) Elders of the planet.
What Gives Can Take Away
As I write this, I’m reminded of the Old Man of the Mountain in Franconia, New Hampshire. The famous profile was created by erosion, with water freezing and contracting within cracks, etc., over the past 12,000 years. His presence over Franconia Notch was obvious; and it was a presence that endured for probably thousands of years. I find it somewhat offensive to note that in the Wikipedia entry I linked to, above, the ‘official’ recognition of his existence only dates back to 1805, which of course was the first written acknowledgment of him by colonizers.
Even if they didn’t have written language, I cannot imagine the indigenous people who lived in the area (and still do) for thousands of years before Europeans arrived on this continent failed to recognize the profile jutting into the air above them. It seems extraordinarily unlikely that there are no myths or stories about this Stone Being among the tribes of New England.
My point in referencing the Old Man of the Mountain, though, was actually how he was an example of how quickly Stone Beings can disappear, in spite of the length of time it usually takes for them to be created. Perhaps not with the puff of a good gust of wind (although who’s to say what ultimately is the final straw?), which is the usual destroyer of Cloud Beings, but for all their resilience, they can indeed be here one moment and gone the next. (And in truth, they can be created as instantly as well.)
Stone Eel or Stone ALIEN? – Photo: L. Weikel
Stone Beings In the Tohickon
As you might’ve guessed, I noticed some Stone Beings in the Tohickon the other day and wanted to share them with you. I can’t really call them both Stone People, as one of them reminds me more of either a massive stone eel or – perhaps more menacingly (for people of a certain age) – a Tohickon version of the alien in the movie Alien.
Both of these Stone Beings were overseeing the rush of a cascade along one side of the creek. And while the one creature does look like an eel or alien, the other without a doubt resembles an Ancient Elder.
When I saw that face, I absolutely had to acknowledge his presence. He reminds me of those carvings on Easter Island. And to be honest, he kind of looks like a more humanoid alien…
I simply love the magic that surrounds us. We’re not alone; of that I’m certain.
Stone Elder – or also a Stone Alien? – Photo: L. Weikel
I’ve been noticing something odd about myself lately. I tend to be pretty self-reflective by nature. And by that I mean I revel in contemplating the bigger questions in life. And I treasure those occasions when I have the time and space to explore in my journal the musings that bubble up from deep within. Lately, though? I believe I’ve developed an acute case of word saturation.
That’s the best way I can think to describe it. I’ve noticed that when provided with opportunities to sit beside a roaring fire (or sometimes better yet, a fire that’s settled into itself, its embers practically begging contemplation), or plunked in the midst of a forest cacophony of cicadas, my mind almost involuntarily slips into neutral.
It’s as if the words are just too much anymore.
What words?
All of them.
This is a little disconcerting for someone who thinks of herself at least tangentially as a writer. But this word saturation is real. And I’ll be honest: it’s a little scary. Am I just tired? Is this a result of having to come up with words every single night for the past 956 days?
Contemplation Station – Photo: L. Weikel
Looking Ahead
Maybe I’m noticing this a bit more lately because I’ve felt circumstances prodding me to give serious thought to ‘What’s next?’ You know; I ask myself the same questions I pose here in these posts, such as ‘What do I want my life to look like or to include 19 years from now?’
Or a more short-term version: ‘What do I need to release and what do I want to cultivate in my life in the next six months?’
When I contemplate these questions, some of the usual suspects pop up in what I might consider to be a reflexive response. Good grief, some of those things I’d like to manifest I’ve been talking about for twenty years. Maybe I need to let them go for good?
Maybe I do.
So if I let them go, what’s left? Well. That demands some contemplation. And – aha. That’s when the word saturation sets in.
There’s a vast Universe out there. A lot of what I’ve been thinking seems…small. Perhaps silence is better.
Aura of the Trees Along the Tohickon – Photo: L. Weikel
Paying My Respects
I spent a few minutes paying my respects to the Tohickon this afternoon. I don’t think I was there a full hour, but it felt as though I’d spent the entire afternoon on its banks. Probably the most miraculous aspect to this body of living water is its ability to instantaneously soothe my soul. In fact, there are some days when all I can muster is a ‘drive-by,’ and I nevertheless feel a difference simply in consciously connecting to this nurturing creek.
I’ve been starving for some creek-time. Before yesterday, I think I allowed ten days or so to go by without giving myself the gift of Tohickon Solitude. While I didn’t realize it at the time, I have a feeling those closest to me <<cough>><<Karl>> may have wondered just what was provoking that edge.
Now they know.
Today’s Photos
The photo at the top of this post is a shot of the creek as it flows southeast toward the Delaware. I took it this afternoon. I have to admit, I stood on a rock as water flowed all around me and felt transported into another time/space/dimension. Undoubtedly, the pulse of the cicadas on one level and the otherworldly whirring emanating from deeper within the forest on either side of the creek on another level held me in a moment that seemed to last forever.
Then I took the photo. I also zoomed in and took another of that same massive cloud seemingly stationed just above the creek.
As I transferred the photos onto my laptop so I could easily include them here in this post, I was surprised to see the very obvious aura given off by the trees. Then my left brained logical side suggested that perhaps this ‘aura’ was simply an illusion created by the lower resolution of the photo. So I transferred it from my iPhone again, only this time opting for the highest resolution.
No change.
Highest Res – Still an Aura – Photo: L. Weikel
Life Force
I can only surmise that somehow I was lucky enough to capture in photo form the life force emanating from this most sacred spot of land. Standing on the rock in that moment, listening to the sounds of life and feeling the wind on my face, I felt connected to everything. I’m privileged to live near here and have the chance to include it as part of my life on a daily basis – provided I make the time.
I only wish for everyone reading this post a sacred spot of your own. A place no matter how tiny or shared with others that connects you deeply – profoundly – with Mother Earth. I urge you to find your place where you feel yourself being recharged and refilled with life force and purpose; a place where joy and hope bubble up in spite of your heartache or worries; a place where it only takes a moment for your heart to feel lighter in spite of yourself.
Today’s Solar Eclipse (as seen in Boston) – Photo: S. Weikel
Today’s Solar Eclipse
I can’t decide. Should I write a little more about the creature that was in my bedroom the other night and what it means when Moth shows up in your life? Or should I follow up on today’s solar eclipse?
Sadly, I did not get a good look at the eclipse this morning. But my son Sage did! He and Sarah got themselves to a beach, bright and early, near where they live in Boston. And wow – I just had to feature the photo he took with his iPhone. It’s spectacular! And Mother Nature very kindly provided them with just enough of a filter that they weren’t at risk of hurting their eyes, yet the eclipse could still be seen through the wispy clouds.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, although I didn’t witness the eclipse myself, I did contemplate it. (I looked out my bedroom window and couldn’t see anything. I will admit, semi-ashamedly, that I did not hop into my car and drive to my usual celestial viewing spot. I was sure, when I went to bed last night, it would be too overcast to see anything by morning. And while it sort of looked that way from my bedroom window, I have a feeling I succumbed to hasty decision-making.
Consolation Visit
While visiting my sweet Tohickon Creek is never a ‘consolation prize’ (although it is at once both a consolation and a prize – discuss*), I noticed what might be a metaphor for this eclipse.
I was sitting in my car with the windows down listening to the competing conversations of the rushing current of the Tohickon and the cacophony of cicadas in the deciduous trees lining the Tohickon’s banks. I won’t lie: it was heavenly. But as I sat there and wrote in my journal, contemplating the eclipse, I got a glimpse of a fascinating potential metaphor:
Tohickon Flowing at Capacity with Poison ‘in the Past’ – Photo: L. Weikel
The focus of my gaze was before me. The torrential rain from yesterday afternoon, and steadier rain into the evening, translated into a reasonably brisk flow of toward its destination, the Delaware River. The pace of the water passing before me wasn’t excessive, but it was powerful. And truly, it felt like it was reflecting the desire in my heart to move forward.
I feel motivated and excited to catch a rapid (and perhaps a little raucous) ride as the current moves downstream on this new moon. And then I shifted my perception to my rearview mirror and was astonished.
Wow. Sitting right there in plain view was a massive poison ivy plant in the midst of overtaking an entire tree. The tricky part is that the poison ivy is so prolific that it has become gargantuan. Its leaves and hairy vines are significant players, and I have to wonder how many fisher-people and tourists have come home with a nasty case of poison because they didn’t realize those leaves brushing their face from above were poison.
The Metaphor Was Clear
Leave it behind. Put the poison (no matter how big it is) that was revealed by the eclipse of the sun in the rearview mirror and don’t look back. Head downriver where the water runs clear and cool. Ride those currents and embrace the reflections of both blue skies and high white clouds.
This new moon was and is more powerful than most precisely because of the solar eclipse. May we all take advantage of it and sow the seeds of some seriously powerful dreams over the next several days. Dreams that will support and nurture us for the next twenty years or so.
I’ve been talking to Spirit a lot lately. Asking for guidance, maybe a friendly nudge in the right direction, yesterday in particular I sensed I was being heard. I feel I’m on the verge of receiving a response to my queries. And the reason for my optimism is the appearance of the raptor watcher.
The air feels pregnant to me; it’s almost electric in the sense of power I feel is building, but not yet found a place to strike.
As I drove to and from the courthouse yesterday, I must’ve seen at least six hawks. Not all at once, as in, a kettle of hawks. No, each one made an appearance as a unique and distinct visitor to my awareness.
At least four of them were being hounded by crows and smaller birds, perhaps sparrows or possibly starlings. It was obvious the hawks being bombarded had been on nest-raiding missions. Were these details significant? Who knows! I wasn’t feeling the love nor sensing a particular message.
Stop at the Creek
On my way home I decided to make a quick pit-stop at the Tohickon. Honestly, I didn’t feel particularly worthy of having a chat with her in that moment, but too much time had elapsed since I’d stopped and said hello. I even vowed not to whine to her if I stopped for five minutes just to settle my bones.
I parked in my most frequented pull-over spot and marveled at how low the water table is. The banks of the Tohickon appear dry and exposed, which worries me, given it’s only the 21st of May. What will the creek look like in early August?
As I exited my vehicle, I started speaking out loud to both the Tohickon herself and the creatures who live within and along her banks. I deliberately tried to steer the conversation away from my prior musings and questions, which echoed like whining to me in that moment.
No. I didn’t need anything obvious. All I needed was some creek time, some quiet and peaceful ‘alone time’ with the body of water from whom I source significant personal energy.
I scanned the trees lining the opposite side of the Tohickon for any avian visitors. Not a one in sight. I guess I’ve seen enough hawks for the day, I thought. And in that moment, I turned my head to look to my right. Right there, vaulting from a tree across the way from me was a Bald Eagle high tailing it downstream. As soon as I caught sight of it working its way down the creek about five feet above the surface of the water, it veered off to the right and disappeared.
“Get your nest out of the swamp,” I heard echo in my head. “Stop indulging in these sad thoughts,” was another comment. “Knock it off,” said an even less patient messenger.
Blue Heron right beside me – Photo: L. Weikel
Blue Heron Chimes In
There’s no question I felt moved and honored by Eagle’s decision to show up in my life, even if it was brief and only showing me its hind end. Hopefully I’ll never take Eagle’s appearance in my life for granted.
I reminded myself that I’d stopped to take photos of the Tohickon and the shocking shallowness of her waters. Taking my iPhone out of my pocket, I snapped a shot downstream, wishing Eagle would pop back out and make another appearance. But no. That didn’t happen.
I turned to look upstream and nearly fell over when I realized I was fewer than ten yards away from a Blue Heron standing proudly erect on a boulder just beyond where I stood. Oh my goodness, what a surprise. And to think all this time I’d been blithely talking out loud to the creek and to any other creature that happened to be listening.
“No one’s going to give you the answers you seek. You need to go within and do your own self-reflection,” I heard. “Listen to Eagle. Get your nest out of the swamp. Spend some time by yourself. You know the questions you need to ask. And you know you’re the only one who can answer them.”
Ummm. OK.
Raptor Watcher – close up – Photo: L. Weikel
Final Point
About 90 minutes later, I found myself walking with Spartacus. Still encountering some internal static in spite of my Creek encounters, I wasn’t even of a mind to pull a card or engage in any of my trusted practices. I just walked and picked up butts along the roadside.
A fracas in the stand of trees behind me caused me to turn around. I saw Crows dogging a Red-tailed Hawk for probably the fifth time that day.
And then I saw it. Looming in the sky above me. Had those messengers not secured my attention, I almost certainly would have missed the Raptor Watcher at my back.
No, the title to this blog was not a reference to me as a watcher of raptors. Rather, it was a reference to the Raptor – be it a Hawk or an Eagle, I can’t quite discern which – that had its eye on me as I walked home last night. I’ve been given the word. Will I listen?
