I had also become enamored with the beauty of a man — it was always a man — standing in a rushing stream about mid-thigh, sunlight winking off the whitewater, casting nearly in slow-motion, over and over again, the long thin line whipping back and forth, catching the light, before barely alighting atop the water.
![Standing In The Stream](https://magarticles.magzter.com/articles/8610/211656/58b91f918f90e/Standing-In-The-Stream.jpg)
THERE’S A REASON FOR THE SPECIAL felt-soled boots that fly fishermen wear, I immediately understood. Walking in a fast-moving mountain stream is treacherous. Rivers are filled with rocks, many of them boulder-sized, and they’re generally covered with all manner of slippery slime. This lesson stayed with me long after my attempt to learn to fly - fish .
My husband, Richard, liked to joke that I wanted to learn to fly-fish just so I could buy and wear the olive green outfit. Years before, I had fallen in love with the whole fly-fishing look: the pale olive green overalls, the high waders, and the vest with its myriad zippered pockets. I had also become enamored with the beauty of a man — it was always a man — standing in a rushing stream about mid-thigh, sunlight winking off the whitewater, casting nearly in slow-motion, over and over again, the long thin line whipping back and forth, catching the light, before barely alighting atop the water.
I had also read Norman Maclean’s evocative story, A River Runs Through It, more than once and saw the movie based on the tale several times. Though I easily laid aside the details about the mechanics of fly-fishing contained in Maclean’s story, which made the point that learning to catch a fish is difficult and requires a great deal of practice, patience, and time, I would never forget Maclean’s fervent belief that fly-fishing is an art . . . and akin to a religion.
The spiritual aspects of fly fishing attracted me. But so did the places that a person practices the art. Though I had lived in cities for four decades, I felt most at peace far outside them: in mountains, alongside rivers, and on lakeshores.
Denne historien er fra Spring 2017-utgaven av Still Point Arts Quarterly.
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Denne historien er fra Spring 2017-utgaven av Still Point Arts Quarterly.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
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![Standing In The Stream](https://reseuro.magzter.com/100x125/articles/8610/211656/58b91f918f90e/crp_Standing-In-The-Stream.jpg)
Standing In The Stream
I had also become enamored with the beauty of a man — it was always a man — standing in a rushing stream about mid-thigh, sunlight winking off the whitewater, casting nearly in slow-motion, over and over again, the long thin line whipping back and forth, catching the light, before barely alighting atop the water.
![The Old Barn](https://reseuro.magzter.com/100x125/articles/8610/198090/5858209f13e7f/crp_The-Old-Barn.jpg)
The Old Barn
The photograph above, by Jeffrey Stoner, is part of Still Point Art Gallery’s current exhibition, Solitude (see more images from this show on the previous pages).
![Sea Foam And Clyde](https://reseuro.magzter.com/100x125/articles/8610/211656/58b91e8337b54/crp_Sea-Foam-And-Clyde.jpg)
Sea Foam And Clyde
Behind the house he hears the rustling of grasses that shine when the wind blows. The blades lift and turn and catch the sun and glitter like tinsel. He stands and sees the house. If you squint maybe it does look like sea foam.
![The Restaurant De La Sirène At Asnières](https://reseuro.magzter.com/100x125/articles/8610/211656/58b920c0d16f0/crp_The-Restaurant-De-La-Sirne-At-Asnires.jpg)
The Restaurant De La Sirène At Asnières
The Restaurant de la Sirène at Asnières is crumbling; you can see it clearly when you stand up close, the bricks are split with age, the boards are warped with weather like the damaged spine of an old man. The building is a decaying, moldy monument to the men who look upon it.
![The Art Of Solitude](https://reseuro.magzter.com/100x125/articles/8610/198090/5858227595ea0/crp_The-Art-Of-Solitude.jpg)
The Art Of Solitude
Solitude isn’t loneliness; it’s different. With solitude, you belong to yourself. With loneliness, you belong to no one.
![Wendy's Room](https://reseuro.magzter.com/100x125/articles/8610/198090/585824d4db634/crp_Wendys-Room.jpg)
Wendy's Room
If sleep, a noise could reach in. Drag you out. Not sleep. No noise. No silence even. All walls sealed. Unconsciousness — the word she couldn’t think of twelve years ago. Except here she was. The mind watching itself. And wasn’t that the definition of consciousness? An ultramarine impasto. As if she knew brushstrokes. Odd, because in this life, Wendy Kochman had been an amateur violist. A failed academic and a mother. Never a painter.
![On Throwing Things Away](https://reseuro.magzter.com/100x125/articles/8610/198090/585826bc140b6/crp_On-Throwing-Things-Away.jpg)
On Throwing Things Away
I will work until my mind finds peace, even if that means I will work for a very long time.