Basgallop Blog

the vicissitudes of water

down by the river Mole
contemplating the reflection of trees, on the opposite bank, in the waters of the river below
a mirrored green prolifferation of foilage
apart from the occasional pock mark and wind ripple, the reflection is serene, calm and still…
and yet, peering beneath the surface, the water races downstream
hurtle and intent
something astonishing, how can motion summon such stillness?
like the chime, the clear gracious note from a singing bowl, this grasps me emotionally, buoyed up, then pulled slightly apart, gently rent
much in the way a tree, its roots rummaging down into the earth mother below, yet branches and leaves reach to the light above,
tension and stretch
river of flow and stillness, realm of insight and reverie
in truth but a variant on the notion ‘we can never bathe in the same river twice’, whats in the noggin, but stepped down from the lofty impregnable, turret of thought
emotions, held in the body, modulated, softened through the blessings of water

later, at the mill race, after the water has come over the drop, rebound, it surges back upwards from the depths
a marbled ooze like the clouds of some gas giant planet, all mottled greens and blues
4 separate pools, between them a linked chase of bubbles, a pattern that breaks then reforms again in an identical manner
a holding pattern, a frequency resonance?
sense of seethe
something about water welling up from below, primordial, the goddesses of springs
like Sulis Minerva at Bath, each is unique
we have always come to speak with, praise and parley, make offerings to, the goddess of a particular place
this intimate knowledge of the divine

i always think of dad on this stretch of the Mole, as when up visiting, just before he died, I walked here all the time,
it would have been his birthday today
the blue flash of the insignia of a kingfisher, this miracle irridescence… a gasp, a fleeting dazzle, yes, and he is gone
‘Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song’ the river meanders through the Eliots Wasteland
dad was cremated a mile downstream, the hospice where he died 5 miles further, so much of my childhood pottering along the mole
canoeing with Rich P on boxing day, in wet suits, capsizing somewhere near the weir
floating down the river, cold, laughing

when shamanic journeying, in my imagination I often come to this archetypal british river,
familiar, comforting
alder and willow, streams of slime green water weed, dragon flies, swans and kingfishers
a golden rainbow light of vision