“Time is an enormous, long river, and I’m standing in it, just as you’re standing in it. My elders are the tributaries, and everything they thought and every struggle they went through and everything they gave their lives to, and every song they created, and every poem that they laid down flows down to me – and if I take the time to ask, and if I take the time to see, and if I take the time to reach out, I can build that bridge between my world and theirs. I can reach down into that river and take out what I need to get through this world”

https://crookedblueline.com/2011/11/01/886/

…You can always find art in its folds

I can almost smell the aroma wafting through camp. The river as slow as bread is to rise. A little flour and water, mixed over a hundred years ago, bubbling in a jar in a dry bag, just waiting to be as beautiful as its surroundings.

“I rolled up some bread and tea in a pair of blankets
with some sugar and a tin cup and set off.”
When asked what kind of bread he took to the mountains,
John Muir replied,
“Just bread.”

The culture of suspended droplets, riveted in sheets to the mountainside, swarming, congregating, propositioning and quiet.

Quiet I say, as an arrangement of behavior unbecoming of quiet. Quiet muddying the compass needle’s point, stung by the frost, common looking quiet, until required to step through.

and the curves, the swooping crowds of white pouring from the raked face of Allender Mountain, pour us as well, appearing from its folds without lack of clarity, we rummage through the vaporous waypoints.

I’m chomping at the bit, whittling the time away, scratching at the itch, to get out there, but the snow just doesn’t want to stop.