Soul Places

Befriending the Soul through Inquiry and Creativity

Tag: seaweed

A Fishing Story

Copyright Diane Ludeking 2012

A Fishing Story from Once Upon a Time:

My neighbor was the type of person who took me fishing even though I didn’t like fishing.  I hated trying to get the barbed hook out of the tiny fish mouths (I only caught the tiny ones), the membrane so thin I could see through it.  The thought of those precious smelly lake dwellers floating dead to shore made me decide not to bait my hooks anymore.

Was I the only one who saw those fish wash ashore?  The sight of them removed my very heart as though a razor-barbed hook had mistakenly caught me there and yanked – yanked like you would if a shark were on the other end.  Had I mortally wounded that poor sunfish in my attempts to get a free ride on the lake?

After all, it was the lake I longed for.

Not poorly baked fish with nasty bone textures.

So I squeezed a few extra sinkers on my nylon line, right above the hook with my own needle nosed pliers that I pulled from my vest, and left the hook naked.  When I was advised to use a lure, I put my Snoopy fishing pole to work, reeling the line in so fast there was no way those tiny shiny fish could catch it.

Whenever possible I just sat in the boat and imagined living in the lake too.  I would be one of those seaweed dwelling creatures who don’t mind the slimy textured plants.  There are so many wonderful places to hide in the seaweed forest of a lake and fisherman’s hooks rarely venture there.

Or maybe I would just be the seaweed reaching toward the sun, brushing the underside of your boat.  When I come loose and drift to your beach, I could create a grave of seaweed for those fishes that washed lifeless to shore, my pardon for killing them in a former life.  You would wave back at me as you floated above, safe and dry in your watercraft.  You could hear me stroking a greeting beneath your feet if you were still enough and smell my fishy smell if your cologne was weak enough.  Or is it really my seaweed smell that makes the fish odor?  That fish smells seaweedy.  Sounds about right.

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Seaweed Forest and Flying

The forest's version of seaweed. Copyright Diane Ludeking 2012

I’ve been running past this cluster of wooden things several times a week for the last month.  Today I finally stopped to take a picture.  And twenty more throughout my run.  So much for keeping my heart rate up, but I knew this day would come.  The day when I could no longer just pass these things by without capturing them more permanently.  And considering the way my mind tweaks things with its vapid recall, I also knew my imagination would distort the heck out of these.  But don’t they look like the forest’s version of seaweed?  The way they wave without moving?  The way they beg me to swim through them instead of run around them?

I confess, my inner child is on the move these days.  And why not let her play?  These beautiful cool spring days exist for a limited time.  Before long the bugs will drive me wild, causing flailing and cursing at the air around me as I also try to maintain my awesome barefoot running form.  An occasional slap of my flesh will reveal my own blood drawn from a mosquito I’ve now killed.  But until then, let the child free!

Copyright Diane Ludeking 2012

Today she is grateful for her freedom but also takes time to encourage contemplation of the punitive action parents take when they ground their kids.  I don’t have kids and have never been grounded, but is it meant to be like a pilot without wings – grounded?  I don’t know if that’s where it came from, but it sure sounds about right.  I’ve seen the face of a child being grounded and it looked a lot like the wind had been taken out from under his wings.  Grounded.

If you were ever grounded as a child, make time today to fly and dedicate it to the child within you.  Running makes me feel like I’m flying.  So does horseback riding.  What makes you feel like you are flying?  Will you do it today?  I am interested in knowing what makes you fly – please share it in the comments.