The “eye” in “me” began beside this small stream. That’s what I think about as I stare into a small stream of water flowing down the creek and across exposed bedrock at the back of the ranch. I’ve sat at the bottom of the deep creek of the cottonwoods many a time and watched the water trickle down rock and across sand toward the Red River in North Texas.
Sometimes the Spring rains are so heavy that the creek rages, pulling down some of those great cottonwoods despite their deep roots; smashing them to and fro as the twisting, turning rapids carry them away. During these times, when the wind is still, one can hear a roaring sound emanating from the bottomlands like some monster rising from below.
There are lessons in this creek like there are in the old trees that stand above the saplings. Lessons to be learned from the dams built by the beaver and destroyed by the rushing waters that follow heavy rains. Lessons in the patterns of the deer and turkey that move across the bottoms and in the plants that shoot from the mud each Spring and die back each Winter.
There are lessons in the migrations of the birds and in the spawning of the fish; none of which would be here without the water flowing down this creek across the exposed bedrock before me.
I look deep into this stream and sense its reflection within me. Parts of this stream will become a river, and from that river waters will arrive at an ocean where some distant ancestor of my past began. Then, back into the clouds the water rises, only to someday rain down again upon these lands I sit upon…and that is where the “eye” in “me” ends.