Writer’s Brook

In our village there’s a path that leads to a running brook. There’s not a house in sight. I go there after a day of writing. I take off my sandals, slip my feet into the cool water, and let the day’s work settle.

Downstream, twenty yards from where I sit, are many fallen trees. They’ve accumulated over ten years as the result of ice storms. During my visits, I’ve yearned for the trees not to be there, so that I could have a fuller view of the brook.

I put out a call in 2010 to local writers I know, asking if they would help me clear the brook. Everyone wished me luck. I went to the brook on Global Exchange Day by myself, and drew a bird.

I’m not a host kind of person. This year, I’ve done what I do better: I reached out one-on-one. I told the Recreation Director about my dream for a beautiful place to sit beside the brook. I told her I thought grandparents would like to go there with their grandchildren. She suggested I call the person in town responsible for trees. I told him about my vision. He had no money. He had no workers. He had a hundred miles of roads and trees to worry about, with safety issues first. But at the end of our conversation he said, “I’ll see what I can do.” A day later, he called back and said he’d been to the brook and would bring in workers. “I like your vision,” he said.

Today I went to the brook and collected liquor bottles, paper wrappers, empty soda cans, and spent cartridges. I did very little, yet it made a difference. I’ll go back again. Eventually, the brook will become an oasis of ferns, with water singing over ancient stones.

What got me going was Radical Joy for Hard Times.