There is a creek that lines the outer limit of the garden. I like to call it a creek. It somehow sounds romantic. Grand. Rural. The truth is, "my creek" is merely a drainage trench that catches the water from the suburban development up the road. The water table is high and when the house was built the trench was dug to drain the swamp from the back yard. That doesn't sound very exciting.
I prefer to think of my creek as a little river in the back yard. I even made a little rock beach by the river bank. The water is encouraged to flow through the wetlands, joining a similar stream that cuts under the road and through the woods until it reaches the Mill Pond a mile from the house.
I like to stand by the creek and hear it babble. I hear my children's voices when they were young. I love the sound of children playing their imaginary games in a giant rhododendron. I love how the sound of the water relaxes, quiets and soothes. Perfect white noise. Point of focus. Empty thoughts. Images of pushing through. Forging on. Gently moving along. Never stopping. Never quitting. Somehow in the simplicity of the moment it all makes sense.