“Eventually all things merge into one; and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops; under the rocks are the words; and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters”…..A River Runs Through It
The first quote above was utilized in a book I’m currently reading and the poet’s words reminded me of the second one which comes from the final scene of that particular movie. There an old man stands fly-fishing in a mountain stream as he recalls his father’s final sermon about our inability to help those closest to us. I prefer the latter description of time, seeing such commodity, myself, not as a path we walk, but as an existence, a dimension within which we, ourselves, determine all the circles and zig-zags of our stumble through the unknown. Indeed, the only real measurement that that can be made in this reveals no more than the number of breaths we’ve taken thus far, not some physical route through the wilderness. The space we occupy has known others. In this thought, the writers and I are in agreement and I do believe that, not so much the spirits of those departed, but some “trace” of them remains with us, some sort of “whisper”, a memory that can be accessed if we would but slow down in our rush to join them, listen with our hearts instead of our ears. No; I am not suggesting ghosts. God is the only tangible connection between here and eternity. Within the framework of “time”, however, my father, for example, is yet held somehow within my being, an invisible cord of some sort un-severed; and I am thankful for it. Likewise, all of history is lost to me only in my decision to ignore it, to leave it there on the other side of the veil……
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