fishing & the circle of life

This is like a miracle to me.

I can't believe my Dad is hanging out & fishing with us at our own Lake Gregory here in Crestline, Ca!

Many of you know that my dear Daddy was nearly killed in a motorcycle accident

7 short weeks ago on Mother's Day...

but here he sits with my sweet hubby along the shore of the lake, fishing pole in hand, surrounded by beauty & breathing in the joy that is 'Life'!

As I sat & watched my Father baiting his hook & casting his line out, I remembered back to when I was child...to when he baited my hook & helped me cast out my line.

And again I am reminded of the great 'Circle of Life'.
During the day my line kept getting tangled up as if it had a little snag in it & yet every time I tried to cast it out my Father would say,
"That was a pretty good one Susie!"

Sadly, this was our best catch of the day.
A tiny Perch, which after the excitement of reeling him in
was released back into the lake to live another day.
I guess in some way that was his 'Miracle'.
For me, fishing is a metaphor for Life.

As the day progressed, several times I was reminded of one of my favorite movies,
'A River Runs Through It'
& knew that I would watch it as soon as I got home.
As we dropped off Dad at the lovely cabin

he rented for a week,
I suddenly felt a little sad.
I explained to Robert that it felt as if my child was spending the night at a

friends house for the very 1st time.
I was worried that he would feel comfortable, or that he had everything he needed, or that he just might miss us during the night.
Again, there's that 'Circle'.

After I got home I did watch 'A River Runs Through It' & I will leave you with the bittersweet & heart wrenching words of the writer of this beautiful book,

Norman MacLean.
Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead,

but I still reach out to them.
Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the

Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.

Yes, I did cry.
XOXO