Bash Bish

You were going to get a post about bicycles. Or rather, my bike. And you will, but not today. Because I forgot that taking pics on the way to work doesn't do anything for today's post, because I need to bring the camera home to upload them...

So, instead, the first installment of Silver Lake posts! Yay!


So, I think I mentioned that I was a conselor for a creative writing conference called The Written Word last week. I thought it would be silly to simply tell you about how I've been writing and not share any of it with you, so here's the first piece that came out of the week for me. But first, you need the setting: This piece came out of a writing exercise we did downstream from Bash Bish Falls. I'd say that this is a first draft, but I suspect that I'll be doing some editing as I transcribe it from my hand-written copy into the post, so in effect you'll be reading a second draft. I'm all about the constructive criticism, so if you have any, please, be my guest and comment!

Wednesday, 072507, Bash Bish

I meander down the bank of the stream, feeling secure in my old boots, looking for a new friend to make. As I sit here, writing this, I resist the urge to smile and lovingly give him a little pat. I know him well enough now to be confident that he would not appreciate the gesture.

But I get ahead of myself. It was downstream from the little beach that he caught my eye. He was, in general, shaped like all the other rocks, but something about his pockmarked features spoke to me.

I picked him up, ranged upstream and found a large rock in the center to sit on. Then, after a brief interlude involving the need of a pen, the return to the bank to retrieve a pen, and the subsequent decision to roll up my pant legs, remove my boots and socks, and wade back to the center, I lay him down on the stone next to me, and he began to tell me his story.

"Who but God knows the immensity of the pressure, the literal physical weight under which I was formed?"

I knew there was something about this rock, he has already brought proper focus to me, setting my mind on God, I thought.

"Who but God remembers the great, tall and fantastic mountain of which I was once a part? A spire so tall that it would seem to be a route into heaven. Who but God can comprehend the terrible cold, or the inexorable grinding movement of the glacial flow or the insistant tumble of water, or the more intermittent working of wind and rain that has worn me down to the palm-full of pock-marked stone you find me to be?"

I left him there, to ponder heavily the working and mystery of God. A smile and a pat seemed inappropriate.



Be good to each other,
Rev. Josh
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