The word "drift" caught my eye. It brought to mind hours watching bits and bobs bob around on gently flowing water. I seem to have a fascination for the past-time. Stand on a bridge and play pooh-sticks, watch other sticks wending their way downstream. Find a pool in a woodland stream, there are fallen leaves passing by, lodging in overhanging tree roots. Or tube- nothing to do with underground systems in London but rather lounging in an inner tube and being carried down stream by the Guagalupe or Blanco river. Effortless, just drift, an ideal way to wile. No effort just carried carried along by the flow, taken at the river 's will. But watch for snakes that bite and boulders that bang and tree branches that scratch. Now my mind is drifting.
This afternoon I rode by the canal. I like that. I can watch the bits and bobs on the gently flowing water, the twigs and plastic bottles as they sail from Ittre to Hal. Today the water was more brown than usual burdened with mud and debris. Water flowing over, water flowing around, water buoying up, mud eroding, banks catching.
What shapes were my driftwood when they first hit the water? I know not. Now they are smooth, no hint of a previous life.
May I not drift from you Lord. May I be recognized as yours. May the life around me not erode me into a bland and shapeless form.
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