Cold River: The Ancestors Who Follow

The water is always brisk, clear and fast moving in Cold River. As a young girl, I often accompanied my father when he went fly fishing, hopping from one rock to another and exploring shallow pools, careful to avoid the rapids that seem gentler today than back then. I had no interest in fishing myself but marveled at my father’s expert skills and the surrounding landscape.

To get to his favorite spot, we passed over Durgin Bridge, a classic New England covered bridge still standing today. Dad told us to close our eyes and make a wish after he beeped the horn. I thought that the horn part was part of the magic but understood later that it was a safety precaution to warn others of our approach.

I was flooded by these warm memories yesterday as I picked blueberries along the banks of Cold River – the river of my childhood. The harmony of the currents beckoned me back to that place from so long ago. Again, I was not alone as my ancestors followed me from one prolific bush to the next.

I harvested a good crop of berries, enough to make the usual jam, pies, syrup and possibly wine (there is still so much aging from last year). The Red Winged Blackbirds called out, allowing me to catch sight now and then, their song mingling in perfect phrases with the delicate breeze.

It wasn’t long before I decided that I must take off my socks and sneakers so to feel the soft grass beneath my feet. This provided immediate relief from the afternoon heat and reestablished my endless desire to connect with Our Mother.

As I picked and ate a good amount of  berries, I gave thanks to the offerings available to me and thought of how fortunate I am to be aware of these simple gifts. I resisted the temptation to actually go to the river and jump in. I wasn’t wearing my bathing suit and the thought of heavy wet clothes was unappealing. Instead, I dipped my feet in and closed my eyes, immersed in my place in the world, exactly as it was meant to be.

When I opened my eyes, they fell upon the sweet mountains that surround us like grand protectors. I thought of the great spiritual connection of my ancestors to the sacred Mount Chocorua and Whiteface, and how it has transcended into my own being and I gave thanks.
Journal: Babies Breath