The stream

I am sitting beside a stream this morning, not the kind that demands attention, but one that meanders through this wonderful New England town not caring if I notice or not. Cars and trucks drive over a bridge as if the stream doesn’t exist. The stream doesn’t seem to care. It flows whether we want it to or not, whether we notice or not.

Beneath the surface, rocks line the stream bed, and I can only imagine how long they’ve been there. Content with their role of providing a bed over which the water can flow, they seem at peace. In fact, they seem to like having the water flow over them.

On the surface, leaves, sticks and bubbles glide downstream. They show the movement of the current, and don’t try to control where it takes them. They're content to sit on the surface and enjoy the ride.

Below where I’m sitting, there are small rapids which the leaves enter willingly, and almost appear to lift their hands in the air and dance their way to the other end.

Staring at the steam, I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t trying to tell me something. Maybe it’s telling me about a great stream that flows through this world whether I notice it or not. Maybe it’s bed is lined with rocks that have been there through the ages, and, on the surface, leaves invite me to join them on the journey. Who knows, maybe I can even learn to lift my hands and dance through the rapids! 

That would be a change.