Return to the pond of dreams

"Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour and is not reminded of the flux of all things?" asked the 19th Century American essayist, philosopher, and poet Ralph Waldo Emerson. I only fish rivers rarely these days, but lakes and ponds produce the same effect in me. After an absence of six months and with Spring in the early stages of springing, it was time to return to the Syndicate Lake. The first visit of the year was not without a sense of trepidation- the winter had seen cormorants in regular attendance at the pond, and I was fearful of what damage these unwelcome saltwater invaders might have inflicted on the pond's stock of tench and crucians, and the water temperature was still at the lower end at which tench tend to feed, but hope springs eternal in the heart of an angler and while your line's in the water there's always a chance. Irrespective of whether the fish were of a mind to feed or not, the provision of  quiet time in which to "meditate on the flux of all things" was welcome, a fortnight after the sudden and unexpected passing of my father. 

There was a pronounced chill in the early air, and the sun remained resolutley hidden by clouds in an insipid grey sky. The lake seemed to exude an air of inert nonchalence, with no signs of the life below its surface- there was none of the bubbling and fizzing that gives away the presence of feeding tench and crucians in the summer months, nor even any small fish dimpling the lake's surface. A pair of swans swam regally through my swim, bankside birds chattered and sang in the trees, but my bite alarm remained silent and my bobbin motionless. I sat, surveying the scene and ruminating on life, memories and faith. Normally, I would have considered changing swims or tactics, but on this occasion I was happy to just sit- being there was enough and there will be plenty of opportunities as the year progresses to chase fish with more deliberate intent and greater intensity. 

Sometimes blanking leaves me frustrated or with a nagging sense of unfinished business, but not so today. Fishing this morning on Easter Saturday in the sleepy liminal space that marks the time between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, between crucifixion and resurrection, as the birds sang and the wind blew through the (still mostly leafless) trees I felt held by the grace whose Source and Light my Dad now sees, no longer, as Saint Paul put it, "as through a glass dimly, but face to face."