I trust you are keeping warm while navigating your way through the depths of January.
I had an experience not too long ago, and it has bred a thought or several that have been prattling around in my head for a while and I'm quite tired of having it/them take up real estate between my ears. So I had better let them rip.
From the beginning:
I was in the middle of one of the worst travel days of my life, cancelled flights, air port naps and cranky people were wearing my patience thin. The plane I was on was boarding connecting passengers, and despite my protests I was imprisoned in the middle seat. To my right was a woman who hated me more than I her and to my left was an empty seat which I hoped to soon occupy. Twelve hours of very little personal space had planted he word "bomb" in the back of my throat and it kept trying to escape. Air port jail I mused, would certainly be more comfortable than my current situation. After all I thought, I much prefer the smell of my own farts to those of my fellow passengers. As the remaining sheep filed on to the plane the isle seat remained unoccupied and my spirits rose... Then I saw her, long salt and pepper hair, a wizened face and eyes obscured by thick glasses, her wrinkled hands gripped her cane as she creaked towards me, she was someones Grandma and she was to be my travel companion in the isle seat for the next two flights.
*Some time ago my mother quelled my urge to be a raging asshole and replaced it with proper etiquette. As a result I spent the next four hours being as polite and helpful to the Grandma to my left as my mother taught me to be.
After two flights together it was time for the nice Grandmother in the isle seat to depart the plane. As the other passengers pushed forward to depart, Grandmother was repeatedly bumped into and ignored. I could feel my mothers lessons politeness fade as my face flushed with anger toward the evil occupants of the plane. Fantasies of swords and blood and carnage were swirling through my head as I began to rise from my seat. And then... I felt her hand on mine, she looked me in the eye and asked, "Why is everyone in such a rush?"... I could only muster a lousy "I dunno...."
Why is everyone in such as rush:
Shit, I don't know why I'm in a rush! So there is no way that I could assert to know why you are in such a rush. I have however dedicated the past decade or so to training myself in needling and the art of patience.
In case you were wondering we're talking about fishing now.
More often than not mistakes made on the water are a direct result of one's inability to slow down. I have watched "Captains of Industry" billionaires fuck things up so badly that they throw tantrums that would make a spoiled child blush and all because they refused to slow down and be patient.
Just as life is a metaphor for fishing, fishing is a metaphor for life:
When your feet touch the water and you look upstream reality instantly slows. Currents push against your legs as the sweet smell of prairie grasses wash away last nights transgressions. There's a slick of water ahead holding treasures people would pay to harvest, but there are seams, runs, and defections to be explored before. You must poke, prod and lift up her tail and have a little look see....It has to be soulful, surgical and methodical, how else do you catch a unicorn. Read, cast mend, mend, repeat. Read, cast, mend, repeat. Read, cast, mend, mend, mend, repeat. Read, cast, mend, mend, mend, mend, mend, mend... Be patient and repeat...
For the most part being in a hurry to drink six shots of bourbon, rushing into an unknown toilet or hastily trying to remove a woman's bra rarely lead to a positive out come.
Namaste fuckers!
