A brief respite from the wonky policy posts of the last few days.
Colors, or the lack of them, can have a powerful effect on the psyche. Pedaling home yesterday through the concrete canyon of downtown, my monochromatic outfit and the grey clouds overhead put me in an introspective mood. My normally overactive brain seemed stuck in neutral. The gears were spinning, but disengaged.
Despite the headwind, I decided to take the long way home along the Hank Aaron State Trail in search of something to jolt me out of my doldrums. Spring seems a bit behind schedule this year, and even the prairie in the Menomonee Valley offered no restorative stimulus. But as the 10 ft wide ribbon of bleached asphalt turned north and pushed me closer to the river, I heard some splashing. Looking down the bank I witnessed a lucky soul with a fish on. Being a witness to the beautiful but violent struggle for life shook me mentally.
As I continued along the river I saw others wading in the turbulent waters, all of them casting their hopes over and over again, miming a pleasant metaphor for life. When I reached the northern bridge over the river, I parked my bike, climbed the concrete wall to sit and watch for a bit. The river coursed with color, a sign of the life within. I wondered at the permanence of water. All the water that ever was and ever will be flows today. Burn a gallon of gas, it is gone forever. Drink a glass of water and a trout will swim in it tomorrow. I only sat for a few minutes when I felt my color return. Restored, I climbed down from my perch and hopped back on my bike.