A technical writer by trade, I am sometimes stifled in my ability – or inclination, perhaps – to write with creativity. It is most painful, of course, when I realize I haven’t blogged for well over a week.
I’m sorry about that.
And I’m not feeling particularly creative tonight, either – the magic that can come by and by with the sipping of the liquid red ambition thus far escapeth mine fickle writing sensibilities.
So, as in the past, I have once again taken refuge in John Muir’s “The Mountains Of California” for inspiration. And, after experiencing a longer-than-usual wet winter season, from which swollen rivers come, I want to share a passage with you from Muir’s chapter, “The River Floods.” It reminds me of a moment from last week when I sauntered across a bridge over Alameda Creek at Sunol Regional Park on a quite stellar – and long-awaited – Spring day. It also encapsulates what I feel, if not what I am able to say.
And so, I humbly yield unto the living prose of Mr. Muir:
The glad creek rose high above its banks and wandered from its channel out over many a briery sand-flat and meadow. Alders and willows waist-deep were bearing up against the current with nervous trembling gestures, as if afraid of being carried away, while supple branches, bending confidingly, dipped lightly and rose again, as if stroking the wild waters in play. Leaving the bridge and passing on through the storm-thrashed woods, all the ground seemed to be moving. Pine-tassels, flakes of bark, soil, leaves, and broken branches were being swept forward, and many a rock fragment, weathered from exposed ledges, was now receiving its first rounding and polishing in the wild streams of the storm. On they rushed through every gulch and hollow, leaping, gliding, working with a will, and rejoicing like living creatures.
Ah…. It sure puts boots on your feet, doesn’t it?