LJ Idol Week 11 Part 2: If The Creek Don't Rise
But in the mud and scum of things,
there always, always something sings
--Ralph Waldo Emerson
Flood season typically brings a bout of mild to serious anxiety to those who live around the creeks. A flooded bank was a pain to manage, so folks stay with four crossed fingers, hoping not to see the creek rise. This creek in particular is more mud than water most of the time, stagnant and living all at once.
Time moves much slower in the mud, and especially when you're quite tiny. As the big people who lived on the banks were wishing against the rising creek, the tiny folks who lived in the mud were quite hoping for the opposite. On the banks, flood season brings the potential of the creek rising yearly. In the mud, this happens once or maybe twice a lifetime.
The mud dwellers are known above all else for their singing. Mud makes for strange acoustics, and from the outside their songs blended with frogs and buzzing flies unless one listened very closely for the gospel rising from beneath the creek. The old teach the young the songs before they can speak; it is their history and legacy documented in melody.
Life is very simple for the mud dwellers and culminates in the Great Adventure. The eldest would have been around for the previous Great Adventure and pass on tales in song to the youngest. Each gospel song swirls around themes of hope and chance, of the great unknown and giving up control. It is never a promise that the creek will rise, but always a chance. There are songs to celebrate the coming of rain and songs of mourning during drought. If flood season passes and the creek does not rise, there is a great harmonized sigh of disappointment and woeful blues, as the mud dwellers are destined to remain in place.
If the creek rises, however, the songs bursting forth are so filled with joy that those small hearts could explode. The tiny folks grab onto the sturdiest of leaves and twigs and ride the current to wherever it is they will land, where they will declare their new home until the next season of flood. For some it will be their last journey. Some will never get to fly, but they still feel high on the chance of impending adventure.
A tiny mud dweller grasps at the hand of her grandfather. "What do you think will happen, Pap?"
Without hesitation, he replies, "Whatever is meant to. But I hope the creek rises."
"What if it doesn't?"
This gave him pause, but only for a moment. "If it doens't rise, then I will stay here. And you will pass on the dream in your songs and wait. The creek always rises eventually."
...
This was my second post for Week 11 of therealljidol. I will post voting info when it is available. If you enjoyed it, I truly appreciate your support and encourage you to read other entries as well.
there always, always something sings
--Ralph Waldo Emerson
Flood season typically brings a bout of mild to serious anxiety to those who live around the creeks. A flooded bank was a pain to manage, so folks stay with four crossed fingers, hoping not to see the creek rise. This creek in particular is more mud than water most of the time, stagnant and living all at once.
Time moves much slower in the mud, and especially when you're quite tiny. As the big people who lived on the banks were wishing against the rising creek, the tiny folks who lived in the mud were quite hoping for the opposite. On the banks, flood season brings the potential of the creek rising yearly. In the mud, this happens once or maybe twice a lifetime.
The mud dwellers are known above all else for their singing. Mud makes for strange acoustics, and from the outside their songs blended with frogs and buzzing flies unless one listened very closely for the gospel rising from beneath the creek. The old teach the young the songs before they can speak; it is their history and legacy documented in melody.
Life is very simple for the mud dwellers and culminates in the Great Adventure. The eldest would have been around for the previous Great Adventure and pass on tales in song to the youngest. Each gospel song swirls around themes of hope and chance, of the great unknown and giving up control. It is never a promise that the creek will rise, but always a chance. There are songs to celebrate the coming of rain and songs of mourning during drought. If flood season passes and the creek does not rise, there is a great harmonized sigh of disappointment and woeful blues, as the mud dwellers are destined to remain in place.
If the creek rises, however, the songs bursting forth are so filled with joy that those small hearts could explode. The tiny folks grab onto the sturdiest of leaves and twigs and ride the current to wherever it is they will land, where they will declare their new home until the next season of flood. For some it will be their last journey. Some will never get to fly, but they still feel high on the chance of impending adventure.
A tiny mud dweller grasps at the hand of her grandfather. "What do you think will happen, Pap?"
Without hesitation, he replies, "Whatever is meant to. But I hope the creek rises."
"What if it doesn't?"
This gave him pause, but only for a moment. "If it doens't rise, then I will stay here. And you will pass on the dream in your songs and wait. The creek always rises eventually."
...
This was my second post for Week 11 of therealljidol. I will post voting info when it is available. If you enjoyed it, I truly appreciate your support and encourage you to read other entries as well.