Recently, a fly fishing exposition came to town in which our
family was given free tickets. I chose
work instead, and missed the opportunity.
My wife and kids took in the event.
When they returned they told me what they had seen. That’s when it happened.
I was reunited with the long suppressed urge to pull my rod
and reel; to head to the corners of our province where few go. What is it about fly fishing? Probably only
those that have this affliction will understand what I explain. I’ll tell it like this:
To listen. Cold and clear. Water, tumbling over rocks that
have been smoothed from the past thousand years. Whispers of a gentle wind singing through the
lofty spruce and pine.
To see. Looming mountains aged one more day, keeping
watch as guardians over a masterpiece expertly crafted. Compliments of colors in the berries on the
bush, the leaves on the trees, the wild flowers on the banks.
To feel. The sun in gentle warmth contrasting with the
cool drops of dew that rolls from the blades of grass to touch the skin.
To smell. The scent of a thousand alpine flowers, rolling
down from the sides of mountains to greet me. Medley’s of wild rose, and violet and juniper.
In the depths of that swirling pool that breaks light into a
Kaleidoscope of blues and greens. Under
the scoured bank, rough and cold like a prison cell. Like a hardened criminal, with scars to tell
of his age and wisdom, HE waits patiently.
Years have told him what is real and what can deceive. Young and new to these waters he was fooled
once. But not since that fateful day
that the line broke, has he been fooled again.
He sees that mayfly dancing at the surface of the water, and recognizes
nature’s perfection. Like a thief he rises
from his cover to swiftly steal it from the surface, and vanishes just as
quickly.
What has brought me to this perfect time and place? What have I done to deserve this chance to
see him now. I will be thankful later,
right now my focus narrows. I will only have one chance at this. All must be perfect. The fly not a half a shade too dark. The line to land in perfect grace. The
current to bobble the fly just so with no drag.
With anything less than perfection I will be known.
To the end of my line I tie on a crude impression of a
mayfly.
I feel the smoothness of the cork in my hand. The cackle of the spooling reel is the only
conversation. The fly line dances around
me in beautiful loops of inflorescence. Everything
moves in excellent form, the fly, the line, the rod, the reel an extension of
the body. This is my time. I am in the moment.
And at this time and this moment my fly and six feet of line
have gracefully landed in a prickly old spruce tree on the far bank. That is fly fishing. Moments captured, opportunities lost but
never forgotten.
All of that to say this.
Balance, especially in a Kung Fu lifestyle can be tricky to
achieve. This past week I have found an
age old passion I had placed on the back burner to be just the therapy I need. Slowing down every now and then to smell the
roses, not feeling guilty about missed training opportunities sometimes is not
a bad thing. Your body recovers, your mind recovers, and a strong body and mind
in my opinion can only help in your Kung Fu training.
