Edited by Michel Stone with Lydia Dishmann, Hub City Press, Spartanburg, SC FLY-FISHING AND THE ART OF AWOMAN'S
HEALING Emma Chisolm
EVERY ARTIST NEEDS A MUSE, AND
THROUGHOUT LIFE, THROUGHOUT ONE'S GROWTH
AND CHANGES, MUSES COME AND GO.
They appear in different forms and aspects, in music, in nature, in books, in paintings, in friends and lovers, even in a beloved sister's dying. They appear in cats and dogs, in rain- bow trout, in summer flowers and winter's snow and ice. They're constantly around us but we must learn to sense their presence, and to do that we have to transcend the mundane earthly things of this life and allow ourselves to lift into oneness with the spirit-world.
I've always given my heart too soon and too quickly but it's always been impossible not to. I have as much.1ove in me to give out and share as there are bubbles in all the soap jars and bubble baths known to womankind. It's like daily I dip my wand into the soapy foam and blow gently to see where my heart's going to go this morning, this day. It's the way I've learned to live in the Now. It's my Zen meta-phor for Life.
I know it's important to listen and be aware of all the signals that come one's way, that point to change in direction or manner of being.
But sometimes they have to pound me over the head to get my real and steady attention. Like with fly-fishing. And how all this magical plunge into a world of living, shining, glistening, rainbow-hued Christmas ornaments that I can hold for a moment in my hand and then let go-only to know that forever and ever I can hold such glory yet again in my hand-came about.
The Cruel Fairy Tale
It all started a year ago when I was tricked out of my house by my husband and his three wicked boys. It's the stuff of fairy tales. Child-hood stories are full of violence and wickedness but somehow in the end the princess is spirited up to a place of safety and protection, far above the tawdriness she left behind. And that's what happened to me. Blessings, first disguised as, and then discovered in, misfortune, have become my abundance. And the husband got his comeuppance, too, for he died. And those red-headed, spotty-cheeked boys are aging terribly, sporting lined faces that look haunted and haggard, framed now with white hair and paunched bellies. Signs that assure me that from the inside they're being eaten alive. Which is fine by me. The worst part of it all is the lawyers, of course, and the money or lack of it. But that's where the Zen comes in now for me, and how fly-fishing has come to be my spirit-healer.
I walk the woods a lot now, following old trails up the mountain, trails that wind alongside the river. Occasionally I pass other hikers but I'm always alone. Deep in thought, I'm content and peaceful, wrapped in the dark green leaves of my laurel thicket “laurel hell" as it's called by the locals up here. Sometimes I pass familiar faces. We recognize each other and have eye talk, but very little conversation. But yesterday as I was walking up and they were walking down, I overheard one say to the other, "Every time we see her there're tears drying in her eyes." And we all kept walking.