Magic May Morning/Early Summer

This morning I went down to the spring that's near my house to take some pictures while all was quiet and the water was still. The place is a popular swimmin' hole, so it's impossible to get people-free pictures of the water later in the day.

I was happily snapping pics when something started dripping on me from the trees above. Slightly irritated, I shielded the camera and moved out of the way. I looked up for a guilty squirrel or bird, but saw nothing. So I continued around the spring, snapping when I saw anything that looked like a good shot.

A bit later, as I circled back toward the spot where part of the river that flows around a small island is used for boat launches, the drippy phenomenon started up again. This time, I was looking into the sun and could see that the water was dripping from all the trees around me, coming down in little cascades of twinkling drops. I remembered that we had had a terrific thunderstorm yesterday afternoon, so I finally figured out that the drops were moisture from the rain that had lingered on the trees overnight, only to be blown down by the early morning breezes.

The Tibetans have an expression called "a rain of flowers" that refers to either rainfall or snowfall (I've heard both) when the sun is shining. In the namthars (sacred biographies or hagiographies) of the Buddhist teachers that I've read, a rain of flowers sometimes appears as an auspicious sign. Of course, it's not surprising that I got irritated by this "rain" at first—I thought I was standing in an inauspicious spot!—but I was glad I finally figured out what was causing the droplets, so I could appreciate it as a beautiful natural phenomenon and not simply an irritation. I guess this is an example of how your perceptions can shift when you change the way you look at things.

As I was taking pictures of the main vent of the spring system (there are a couple of smaller vents closer to the river as well), I noticed two large fish had come up into the spring to explore. Two fish are an auspicious symbol in Buddhism as well; they can represent happiness, among other things. (I'm always happy to be at the springs!)

A bit later on near the boat launch, I heard a hawk call and saw two two large birds fly into a tree. I waited a bit, and while I wasn't quick enough or expert enough to get a picture, one of the hawks left the tree and flew right by me. Partly because "Faulkner" (falconer) is a family name on my mother's side, I feel a kinship with these beautiful birds; my spirits lift whenever I see one.

As I was driving up the little hill away from the spring and river area toward higher ground, a black crow flew in front of my car for a long way—not leaving the path of the winding road, but flying directly above it, almost as if to guide me away from the river.

I don't attribute any special significance to these events, by the way—I just think it can be inspiring to contemplate what Mother Nature will show us, if we are patient and focused enough to watch and listen.

Sometimes two fish are just two fish; other times, a symbol of two fish can represent beauty and abundance, or the embodied consciousness in which we so often find ourselves imprisoned.

Sometimes a hawk is just a hawk; other times, a hawk can remind us of our connections with our ancestors or inspire us to see things from different perspectives—the hawk's eye view.

Sometimes a crow is just a crow; other times, a crow can remind us of Mahakala, the dark protector of the Karma Kagyu lineage.

Sometimes raindrops can just be raindrops; other times, raindrops while the sun is shining (which happens a lot here in Florida!) can remind us of our beloved teachers, and of Buddhism's twin goals of wisdom and compassion.

It was really a magical start to the day—first being alone at the spring and then watching as two beautiful retrievers joyfully splashed around in the water with their owner; their delight was so obvious that I couldn't help smiling.

As I was leaving, more people began to arrive. How the springs draw us all in—it is true, isn't it, that "recreation" means, in part, a process by which we re-create ourselves?

There may be a magical place very near where you live. What is it? How does it reveal itself? How do you honor it? What can you do to protect it?

The Mind

The mind is the mountains,

rivers, trees, and grass,

and the mind is the sun,

the moon, and the stars.

-Dogen

Springs Trash

Over the past year, I was stunned to find out that in addition to the one water bottling plant that's been in operation near Ginnie Springs for a number of years now, there were no less than four requests—some active, some dormant—to construct water bottling operations on one three-mile stretch of the Santa Fe River.

Looking at the trash left at our neighborhood spring today, I'm reminded that the vast majority of those plastic water bottles don't get recycled—they end up in landfills.

Do we all really need to drink bottled water? Water from the tap is just as good; in fact, lots of bottled water is simply tap water, bottled from the same municipal water sources that supply water to your home.

There are many alternatives to plastic water bottles that can be had for just a minimal investment. I use a Sigg bottle; Klean Kanteen and L. L. Bean both make nice stainless steel bottles, and I'm sure there are other alternatives as well.

Afternoon Light, Easter 2009

My favorite time to take pictures is in the late afternoon. Actually, that's my favorite time of day, period. I love how the light slants through the trees and makes shifting, dappled patterns all around as the sun goes down. It's a magical time.

The photo above captures some of the afternoon magic at our neighborhood spring, looking from the woods out toward the river. If you look closely, you can see more cypress knees.

Rising Water

About a week ago, we had several inches of rain. To our north, south Georgia got a lot more rain than we did. That extra water has been slowly percolating through the aquifer, and rivers to the north of us have flooded—forcing roads to close and forcing people out of their homes and into shelters above the floodplains.

The Santa Fe is the last of Florida's rivers to receive the water from south Georgia; west of where we are, the river is expected to reach near-record flood levels in just a couple of days. So when Forrest and I drove down to our neighborhood spring this afternoon, I expected to find the whole place underwater, but it wasn't.

The brown river water was high enough, however, that it had encroached upon the normally crystal-clear spring and the ramps into the spring, which for several years now have been above water, are now underwater.

The tree, above, is also underwater.

The idea that rain in Georgia can affect the rivers hundreds of miles away in Florida is just one of many examples of the truth of that environmental slogan, "Everyone lives downstream."

Each of us is downstream from something. What is upstream from you?

About the Santa Fe River*

The Santa Fe River is a slow-flowing tributary of the Suwannee River, which was made famous by the 19th-century American composer Stephen Foster in his song, "Old Folks at Home":

Way down upon de Swanee Ribber (River)

Far, far away

Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber,

Dere's wha de old folks stay.

All up and down de whole creation

Sadly I roam,

Still longing for de old plantation

And for de old folks at home.

Chorus

All de world am sad and dreary,

Ebry where I roam,

Oh! darkies how my heart grows weary,

Far from de old folks at home.

All round de little farm I wandered

When I was young,

Den many happy days I squandered,

Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing wid my brudder

Happy was I

Oh! take me to my kind old mudder,

Dere let me live and die.

Chorus

One little hut amond de bushes,

One dat I love,

Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes,

No matter where I rove

When will I see de bees a humming

All round de comb?

When will I hear de banjo tumming

Down in my good old home?

Until 2008, "Old Folks at Home" was the state song of Florida. Since the lyrics were written in black dialect, however, some came to see the song as racist—even though Foster himself sympathized with black Americans and supported the North in the Civil War.

I will show my age by admitting that I can remember a time when "darkies" was the preferred term to use when referring to blacks, at least in the house where I grew up. But I digress.

Running approximately 113 kilometers from its headwaters in Lake Santa Fe (near Melrose and Keystone Heights) to its confluence with the Suwannee River (near Branford), the Santa Fe is classified as a calcareous stream—predominantly of spring origin.

The river's most unusual feature, apart from its springs, is the fact that it disappears completely underground at O'Leno State Park and returns to the surface about 4.8 km downstream at River Rise Preserve.

The Santa Fe was named for a Franciscan mission, Santa Fe de Toloca, likely located on or near a bluff that overlooks the river valley near the community of Bland. It's a magical place, as near to being suspended between earth and sky as one can get in this neck of the woods, and the archeological evidence of missions in the area is a poignant reminder of La Florida's long and fascinating history as a Spanish portal in the New World.

"Santa Fe" translates from the Spanish as "Holy Faith." It has always seemed to me that those of us who love the river are bound to it with a holy faith, sworn by our love to preserve, protect, and defend the river from ever-increasing threats to its existence.

*This map of the Santa Fe River was created by Karl Musser from USGS data and published under the Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.5 license at: 

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5/

Near the River

Life near the river is almost always surprising.

Yes, that's me in the photo, being surprised by a photographer while taking a walk during a break at a Friends of O'Leno State Park Event. The picture was taken almost 20 years ago, and both the river and I are still here—although because I know that everything is in constant change, I always wonder: For how long?

For now, the change from winter to spring—and it's been a long, cold winter with many nights of freezes and hard freezes—is inspiring me to try new things like this blog. So, welcome; I hope you enjoy your time here near the river.