February 2, 2010


Life is only a dream and we are the imagination of ourselves.
Bill Hicks

Roll over. Check the clock again. 3 a.m... finally. Okay. Out of bed, into the shower, throw down some breakfast, stow my gear and hit the road, all way the hell before dawn. Perfect. The ride through those hours before daybreak has always been so very blessedly cathartic. If there's anything else that comes close to that I don't as yet know what it is . I am transformed as well as rewarded, given a golden opportunity to steal back some of the time I've previously spent, wisely and/or otherwise. It's so precious that if I were to be given back all of the time in my life to re-invest, these times, that I spend for me, with me, on the road, would never be re-visited. They would stand as they are, for it is while I drive through those hours in the darkness that I am most at home in my mind. I am free. Free to wander, to imagine. Bound by no parameter other than what I wish to construct at each particular moment.
I have no sound system, no radio. Only the sound of travel. The tires on the pavement. The wheels in my head. My mind sings as the miles roll past. Songs of joy, of wonder. Mistrals blow, a fog descends, then dissipates, baring the moon and the stars. I find myself in the midst of a smile, sometimes wistfully recalling other time, quite lost to the world in my capsule, traveling over and through the canyons of my life.
I think of my fishing; what's to come. Where I have been, and where I might go. What I have learned. What I should have learned, but chose to ignore, thinking I knew better. How this time it will be different... or maybe not. Lessons learned, and often forgotten... maybe a tear or two, quietly proud of my progression... just how far I have traveled down my chosen path, mostly alone. How much I have taught myself in the years since a day at the lake changed me, unlocked me, forever...
I imagine the cast, and the fly, landing softly, perfectly... how the rod feels in my hand... what adjustments the weather may possibly command... maybe some rumination in the direction of flies... what to use... how should I begin the day...
And then, it hits me again for not the first, or last time. I realize I am at peace. I am finally, truly at peace. I have, in weathering the storms throughout my life, become the man I always wished to be. I have found that place in my heart where it is good, and right. Where I can continue to grow and learn and experience the essence of what it is I love to do, without the weight of expectation, or failure.
I imagine a tight loop carrying my fly far, far over the horizon...

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