Our family at this time was living on a
beautiful farm of hundreds of acres of rolling pasture; and just below the rise
upon which our homestead was built was a stream. There was something about this
particular stream which interested me, even fascinated me, and I had told
myself that one day, when I had the time I would explore it; but of course I
was always far too busy.
Most of us are too busy to do the crazy things
our heart longs to do; and unfortunately we are mostly too sensible to do them. Oh, but it seems to me that we are largely driven by our need of being sensible
people. In prideful caution we are bred. Endowed from the beginning with a
strict internal code unto sensibility. But, it is true, that in nothing
ventured nothing is gained. And in our dreams forever remaining dreams the dream gets lost.
Well, today it wouldn’t! That was already
decided! Today I was going to explore that stream at the bottom of the hill; although
I didn’t have the time to do it, I was going to do it anyway. (Being crazy and
leaving everything behind you made it all the more fun and heightened your
delight, and fed your burgeoning feeling for adventure!) I fairly flew out of
the house and across the lawn. Then through that old rickety gate – which
really ought to be fixed before it falls apart – and down the little winding
path to farm road below; and then, just beyond it, the stream, and your own
adventure in Everland.
Without hardly knowing why I found myself
walking upstream. There was this crazy notion in me, that if I did, I might
find its source, if only I had enough time; and finding the source of a stream
was drawing me strong as a pin to a magnet. I had always wanted to find the
source of a river, but today I would make do with a stream. Perhaps, it
wouldn’t be quite so far? Prudence and
sensibility are shirked off only gradually; as I discover their opposite weight, of imprudent reckless abandon; which sometimes, happily indulged in, brought
about a better balance in my life.
What was it about the source of something?
What was it that attracted me? Why was I intrigued by the idea of finding the
source of a river? …Its source, the beginning of the life of it? And finding
that, somehow made for its greater meaning? And then transposing that to
personal life, leading me to seek the source of my own life? Could the
adventure of being drawn to find the source of a river lend more sense to my
insatiable desire to find the source of all meaning, and of life, itself? Was
there not behind it a buried unconscious thought that if I could just find the
beginnings of the stream I should find something of my own beginnings, also?
There is something about a river’s source
that has fascinated humankind since time immemorial, and that if we could
understand why we were drawn to do so, we would perceive and understand
something more about ourselves, and be closer to finding home?
So I mused, drawing from my heart, as I
began my walk along the farm stream on this day of days. And it seemed to be
getting warmer. Passing by the old pump house I stopped in its shade to listen
to its well-oiled clatter. I liked it. The pump was terribly old and needed
replacing but it was beautiful to me. Because it brought me nearer to what I
knew it represented – the ancient drawing of water, the very water of life. For this stream fed the
house, and its water pure and fresh we drank of it every day it was necessary
to life. Just as this pump brought water to come inside our house so was it a
picture of that which brought living-water to enter my own ‘house:’ my
innermost being and spirit. The pump, the well-oiled faith in my heart, drawing
me ever onward, toward an increasing abundance of light and life. …But where,
was the source of this stream; and what was it like? Was there any answering
story there?
I carried on walking. The little stream led
me through the heart of the farm as it went meandering through rising fields
where sheep and cattle grazed. Bounded by willows the stream was in many places
choked with them; and with other water plants; delicious watercress grew higher
up near the forest. Then at last I reached the little lake, nestled in the
folds of the hill. It was hidden from the house; and it was too big to be
called a pond. The stream fed this lake, or dam as the farmers called it; and
that interested me. That such a small stream could fill this lake was amazing;
it captivated my thoughts. That something so infinitesimal could furnish
something so vast spoke volumes to me, and of wider and more wondrous things –
how that the insides of life could be greater and larger than the outsides of
it. I knew this was true.
The day wore on and it was hot. But not much
further up the hill and I eventually approached what might be the beginnings of
the source. The stream had narrowed to a trickle through the short grass,
coming down from a steeply folded crease in the hill. After a moment it seemed
to disappear; and then, suddenly, a bit further on there it was a little pool
in the grass, no more than half a meter wide. And from a tiny hole in the
centre of this crystal well water bubbling up. I saw the effervescent path as I
knelt down on the grass to look. A rising fairytale trail of tiny bubble. It
was a natural spring. It was the source. It really was, the source; at last.
Oh, did it ‘speak?’ Did it have an inner tale to tell? Well, since I looked for
one, it could tell me only of the plain fact. That in a plain land, in a simple
place, nothing fancy – in fact in something terribly ordinary, just as Everland
was on the outside – you could find the source of life’s delight and light
hiding there all hidden away in the ‘usual.’ I had walked past this place
many times, and never seen it.
Here it was; my own answering
‘picture-story.’ Telling me that just as it was in outer real life, so was it
in the inner real one, within me. As the stream was here, so was the one inside, also. Every day I could drink from
that source, bubbling up inside of me, if I only believed.
Oh, and I saw I need not to go looking for
my story; that way I might miss the one that was happening right in front of me
all the time. That half empty bottle of homemade ginger beer, for instance. I
could have stopped for a moment to watch its life, when I accidentally tipped
it over; but, I rushed on out; I didn’t see the rest. I didn’t notice…
I think many people would love to find the
source of a river, if only they had the opportunity and the wherewithal to do
so; but we need not wait until we can. If we did but surrender to the moment we
were in, we would find what it represented, right here with us; but it is all
so close at hand and wrapped in the usual we rarely recognize it.
The magical source of a natural stream, is
as the source of the one more real inside even more glorious ever bubbling up
into everlasting life within us; the
fountain of life from the source of all life. And all the while we are brave,
and throw prudence to the wind to stumble upon its opposite value, indulgent
creativity and reckless abandon; and then give ourselves – to living.
*
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