Two Worlds

I like both worlds. The one I inhabit most of the time has computers, newspapers and information feeds of all types. The world I don’t get to enough has nothing, yet it has everything. Like an alcoholic or drug addict, going from one world to the other has its withdrawals.
Such is the beauty of the fishing trip. Not the trip involving a quick jaunt to favorite river or lake location, but the one that is the over-nighter, double over-nighter or longer. That’s the one where fire, water and sky are the entertainment — the keyboard to a different existence.
The first evening of a fishing trip is the best and the worst of times. There is that time when fishing is done, supper is consumed, dishes done and then? No computer, no television, no artificial entertainment at all. Fingers itch of course. There is that tendency to reach for a mouse and the quick realization that the mouse you reach for will have fur.
It is transition time. Slow down. Even a mind full of an emotional spreadsheet — figures and facts of our hectic life — quietly melts away. And then there is that moment, marked by the starry night, or the whipping wind and rain, or the dazzle of the fire, or the hushed and infrequent conversations from companions or the sound of the river in the darkness, when one world becomes another. There is nothing to do, yet everything to do. Thoughts seem to become clearer, appreciation for all things wild and remote become almost religion-like. You feel if you give it more of your soul, it will reciprocate.
There is a sharpness that develops. By shedding what was, the brain accepts what is. The sky is larger. The stars are brighter. A breeze becomes a living thing. You feel it touch you and then move on, and you think you can see it in some bodily fashion whispering on its way, telling this world that you are okay, you have been checked out. The trees are not a forest anymore. They are individuals. You pick them out and wonder how this one or that one manages to cling to the eroding bank, its roots assailed by the relentless water, its top stretching ever upward, disregarding gravity, patiently relishing its own, hard-won view of the world. The river becomes more than a noise. It is saying something and you strive to understand a language that is so close and so far from your understanding it becomes a pleasant puzzle.
Then, as always, you gaze to the fire. Oh what ancient memories it stirs. It speaks with every crack and pop. It smiles and frowns as it licks at the fuel you feed it. You think you understand it. It is, after all, a simple fire. Yet it casts light and shadows and warmth that are incomprehensible. It is nature’s flashing modem light that tells you, you are connected.
Sleep does not come easy. The new world has triggered new senses. You want to relish them. The fire’s flames flicker lower. Your eyelids follow suit. When sleep comes it is exquisite and morning finds the fire smoldering, grumpy and dark. A few well-placed pieces of wood make it smile and grin again.
As do you.