This weekend I went fishing. I use the term “fishing” with a great deal of latitude. I am a wannabe fly fisherman, but most people would just call me an amateur (at best). I don’t really know what I am doing and if you want to catch fish you really need to know what you are doing.
Friday evening I was fishing a small trout stream in Arizona. I had tried several different flies with little luck. A gold-headed nymph. A wooly-bugger. The afternoon sun (and my hope) was quickly fading behind canyon walls as I worked my way upstream. I was passing a small pool when it suddenly fell into the shadows. The glare off of the water surface faded. And there they were. Four trout. Swimming upstream, seemingly motionless while facing the relentless current. My heart rate quickened and I prepared to cast with relative certainty that my line would slap the water and scatter the fish.
Instead, I paused and took a seat on a nearby rock. I waited. I watched. Other than the sound of rushing water, the occasional whistle of a Kingfisher, and the rustling of the wind, it was quiet. I watched these beautiful fish (with seemingly little effort) hold steady in a rapidly flowing stream. I noticed several interesting plants and wildflowers around me. I watched ants making their way to an unknown location. Then my focus went back to the trout.
I realized these fish were doing something that I struggle with on a daily basis. They were calmly remaining steady in the face of things moving rapidly around them. Focused. Patient. Staying in the moment. Okay with being still. That is a beautiful thing. Stillness in the rush of life. I learned something from those fish and for about thirty minutes I followed suit. Sitting. Observing. Okay with being still.
As the sun slipped beyond the horizon, I packed up my equipment and left. No sense in bothering the fish. Allow them to enjoy the quiet.
