Old friends came to visit for a kayaking trip down the Farmington River. A few thoughts:
The smell of wet leaves surprises me every October.
Yellow leaves, just fallen into the Farmington River, look like the stacks of gold everyone is wishing for. But if I try to pan them, I'll just have a handful of wet leaves. They are precious underwater only. The guide says, "Next year's moss."
A small white spider is on my leg, then my finger. I can tell by the way his legs pull backwards that he’s afraid of the little splashes I’m making with my paddle. I stop paddling, intentionally drift towards a dry branch to put him on. I extend my finger towards the branch, but just as my kayak is about to crash into this shallow brambles, I am gripped by a sudden fear of falling behind the group, beaching my boat, and the spider itself. I shake my finger and it’s gone, into the water. I hope desperately that the distance to the branch isn’t too far for my spider. I know he probably will drown. I remember many of the spiders I’ve accidentally killed, each one a record of how cruel my bumbling can be.
Yesterday I was dazzled by the leaves, when I had only myself to prove Connecticut’s beauty to. But today my friends are here and everything seems duller. I have the urge to say, “isn’t this beautiful?” even though I feel everything in Connecticut is better when I see it only with my own eyes.
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