He’s practicing what I’ve long thought of as “Jim Yoga,”
focusing his attention alternately skyward (mountains, birds, clouds) and at
ground level (dogs, trout, plants). It’s a ritualistic way of moving through
the world that’s revivified him, of seeing through eyes other than his own —
and those of us who’ve read his books have been revivified as well.
“If you spend a fair amount of time studying the world of
ravens,” he’s said elsewhere, “it is logical, indeed, to accept the fact that
reality is an aggregate of the perceptions of all creatures, not just
ourselves.”
Save for the squeaking oarlocks and the water lapping at the hull, the boat is wonderfully quiet. Flicker calls, warbler note cascades,
wind, around us the scent of budding cottonwoods on which we base our faith.
Then Jim says, “Come on, trout! You don’t want to see little Jimmy throw a
tantrum, do you? You know, Davey, I once caught a 3-pound brown on this left
bank coming up. Right … ” he pauses and waits for his Little Olive to slap against
the bank, “here!”
And before he can strip the line, a chunky brown trout
cartwheels out of its element for the fly, latches on to the hook, and Jim lets
out a whoop. We are all three more than a little dumbfounded. David and I
exchange glances of substantial bafflement as I slip the net under the fish.
“Mystery,” poet James Galvin wrote, “moves in God-like ways.”
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