the serial story of the creek

 

change and the creek

change throws itself at the world,

excessive rain pummels the mountain and valley,

raises the creek,

empowers it to reshape the flows,

the mountain stream shifts toward what was secondary before,

now just above our cabin,

much more water flows in what was a minor branch,

rather than in the formerly main branch,

the creek decides it is easier to flow

down a different channel,

constancy is not how streams manifest

unless we define constancy as change,

great trunks of hemlock 

slowly make their way downstream in the high water,

each felled by a voracious insect, an adelgid,

that hurries along their meeting their maker,

these logs change the stream bed

and have their own stories to tell,

it is exciting to anticipate

the next editions of the serial stories

that are all around us.

by Henry H. Walker

August 22, ‘26

what's the draw of a stump?

 

stumped

what did my brother Clarence

like so much about stumps?

he invested more pictures in his daughter,

but his pictures of stumps are a close second,

remnants of trees broken off near the ground

yet still enduring to echo the tree's audacity to reach for the sky,

I like to notice stumps,

to remember the tree that rose above them

that is still rooted deep but quickly fading from its life,

I like to watch fungus work its will upon them,

I watch the land around them erupt with growth

with new life now allowed

to work its will with the sunlight

no longer dominated by the will of the fallen tree

I see stumps as they appear to me

and still I cannot make the empathic leap into what my brother saw,

I remember a story of Aunt Lindy

who lived ¾ of a mile up valley from here,

her niece, Lucinda Oakley Ogle, quoted her

as appreciating her husband

for somehow, who he was,

worked well with who she was,

a luck of the draw not as universal as might seem best,

fate can make us each ourselves, and different,

it is marvelous when who we are

can work well in connection to others,

our likes and dislikes seem to have the random all about them,

for my brother and the stumps,

I can appreciate that his enthusiasms were real and important,

but profoundly beyond what I can know for sure,

love can help me appreciate, even when I cannot find the way

across the chasm between me 

and even those I dearly love, and know.

by Henry H. Walker

August 22, ‘26

a gift from the school

 

"how Friends School. . . "

two Carolina Friends School alums

recently used the same phrase

to describe themselves in their following

of an unusual path:

"how Friends School of me. . . "

one has created a persona of oracle

that works to constructively entertain her public,

and that pays her bills,

allowing her to follow whatever personal callings speak to her,

she reads the crowd, the body language, however truth manifests,

and uses her intrinsic interest and care 

for people and psychology and what moments can reveal

to create a unique path

that fits both who she is and what she needs,

I remember her as a middle school student, 

believing in reincarnation and imagining being a c.e.o. in business

as a good choice for this life,

just requiring more time and births

to get back to the source,

now meditation within Buddhist traditions calls to her,

another CFS grad has spent her two years

since graduating from Oberlin in Indonesia, 

where she was called to help

Rohingya refugees make their way forward,

despite how poorly they've been treated in their birth homes

and in the halfway country through which they hope to move,

to find themselves where who they are can be seen, appreciated, 

allowed and enabled to thrive,

both CFS alums looked at us

after opening themselves and their journeys in our visiting,

and casually attributed what they are doing

with their lives as adults

to values they chose to embody

from what they learned at CFS,

"how Friends School of me" is both an acknowledgement

of the source from which they learned

and of the resonance within them

as to who they are,

as to who they want to be,

it speaks of the calm joy they feel within

as to finding a path forward with their lives

that is basic and real to who they actually are,

and to how they credit CFS for helping them find

ways that help the world, and themselves,

be true to what is most right for them,

every life deserves to be seen, appreciated,

and held to the expectation

that each life can make a difference,

and a difference for the good.

by Henry H. Walker

August 10, ‘26

an intense sharing

 a bear cub's panic attack

late morning I head down to the creek for a plunge,

earlier we had hiked several miles up and down the valley

in air so humid my sweat drenched my clothes and my spirit,

I was ready for the early morning rain

to help the already full stream wash away my sodden lethargy,

over the background sounds of the creek,

which to me are like an undercurrent of applause,

thousands of droplets clapping against the stream itself,

intensive, abrasive cries annoy me,

at first I blame the noise on human hikers,

in love with complaining sound,

like the unmuffled vehicles they throw up the mountain,

I go upstream and realize the complaining noise

must be coming from a animal,

a distress call of some kind,

I think I'm within fifty feet of the source,

but no animal in trouble appears,

I recruit my wife as fellow detective,

when she joins the visual search,

a bear appears within the obscuring green growth,

high on the bank across the creek,

then all speeds up,

a bear cub throws itself up 65 feet into a tree, 

then down, then up, then down,

a racing intensity to its movements,

a large bear appears at the tree's base

and climbs halfway up the tree,

as if in solidarity with the even higher cub,

it turns out the cub seems to be

 having a full-blown panic attack,

I do not know what precipitated it,

both bears lightly meet at the base of the tree

and head off northeast,

it is a gift that the Venn diagram of our worlds

intersected enough

for a commonality of the moment

to let me taste the intensity of the truth

of what their moments reveal to them,

we are lucky if we see only a few highlights.

by Henry H. Walker

August 21, ‘26

chawing down

 

the draw of the chestnut

a glance out the kitchen window

and there's a dark mass in the yard,

a bear!

not very big, it was probably a cub last year:

beautiful, sleek, compact,

I grab my camera, put on the telephoto lens,

and spend 35 minutes watching it

scout out and munch down

on green chestnut burrs,

coaxing out the not yet ripe nuts,

but close enough to make the effort worth it,

the bear knows I'm nearby

it is alert to quick movement or to sudden sounds,

so I make none,

and he relaxes into peaceful coexistence,

this bear is true to the basic culture of his species in this valley,

humans can be annoying but are not dangerous

or an easy source of food,

food is often found near human houses,

but from trees who don't care who eats the nuts,

I usually stay about 25 feet from the bear,

and make little noise,

make no abrupt movement,

when it approaches 20 feet from me,

I slowly back up to give it its space,

I savor my pictures of it savoring the chestnuts,

my pictures are of it just being itself, and foraging,

later I am down by the creek,

and a black swallowtail butterfly visits a cardinal flower,

I add pictures of it feeding

after those pictures of the bear feeding in my camera,

I wait by the stream

in case the bear wants a drink, a dip, a crossing here,

that way doesn't open,

how extraordinary the last hour has been,

how wonderful the gifts

 of animal,

of plant,

of the song and joy of the stream

that is always there for us

to notice,

to appreciate,

upon which we can center ourselves,

and hold within us 

the bear, and cardinal flower, and butterfly.

by Henry H. Walker

August 20, ‘26