Another roots exposed photo, to add to the previous post.
Taken along the Pedernales River, which is wonderful with Bald Cypress trees. They’re the best. They remind me of the Gulf Coast, which is where I was raised, and often miss.
Cypress trees are in the Redwood family, and have an average age of 600, but some live to 1200 years old. I think of the swamps of Louisiana when I think of Cypress trees, heavy with Spanish moss. I also love them in the Hill Country of Texas, which is more of a high desert, where Cypress trees signal rivers, creeks and springs. If no water is present, you know there is a deep spring, gurgling down below. That’s what I love about the hill country, the springs. Water is like spilling jewels, when its scarce in the dusty 110 degree heat. If it’s deep enough to swim, then it’s golden. If there is any type of waterfall, then it’s a treasure, and if there is an ancient cypress tree at the falls, that tree is the dragon on its gold.
There’s one place in Spicewood I swim, where the springs are lined with ancient Cypress. It’s one of the largest undug Indian middens in Texas. I’ve camped under that canopy of trees along those springs, and it is heaven at night. I love how campfires create a wobbly, glowing dome around you, as the night, just outside the orange sphere of light is alive in sound and movement. The trickling of the springs lullaby you to dream. Not far from the camp, the little stream of cold spring water falls over the side of a cliff and into Cypress Creek. I’ve bathed in that fall many times. The best are after midnight. Nightswimming.
Night swimming, not in a cement pool, but in black as night water reflecting the stars, and you’re surrounded by frogs and fish and turtles, and scurrying-somethings along the bank. On your back, floating, you feel you’re floating in the heavens, on a still black sea of the universe. The observer. I bet that is what meditation feels like. I need to go camping, or atleast outside.
Okay, I’m making some tea, and heading out onto the deck