Muse on the Loire
As I walked down the beach to the Loire River I wondered whether the river was made to fit the beauty of the rocks on the shore or the other way around. I have never seen such an assortment of interesting rocks. I picked up three, one for each of my young siblings – each one somehow reminding me of their characters. I don’t know if I can send them now because I accidently put them through the wash and they were thrown out. But the river can’t be so easily discarded – it will last for a long time yet. When the castle that now seems to protect the river and fortify it is in a rubbish pile or someone’s cottage wall – the Loire will run by, peaceful as ever. The bridge ahead pretends to be it’s frame, but it is merely decor compared to the Handmade bed that the river forever rests upon.
My uncle is a birdwatcher and as his quietly excited hand points here and there I see the striking blue streak of the King Fisher dart away. The sun’s last rays spread grasping over the stillness. But the water doesn’t move for it, not even a budge. The rays cannot even penetrate that expanse, rather they are returned in exact form. So precise that the object and the copy are self-reflecting, its a wonder which is the original. Strangely, I am convicted. How willing the water is to exemplify the image of the sun: unashamed, unabashed, unreserved. Where the sky meets the water I cannot tell, I know they are separate but right now they are bonded together. In the same manner, from that Holy side the water flowed with the blood, mingled but separate, showing not their own glory, but the splendour of their Origin. And this is the Son from which I came and through His cleansing flow reborn, became a mirror of the Rays. But how oft the peace which holds this river still is absent from my soul! How oft that radiating glory finds no imitation in the works of my hands. How oft that perfect Image is marred when reflected on my countenance.
As I rowed nearer the shore the current quickened and I realized that here too the wind would blow and disturb the quiet. Tumults would come and cloud that face that now so clearly shines – but it will always go to its rest in peace. That is what I must do, knowing that troubles will muddy the reflection but also being assured that the One Who stirs the winds with His finger also holds me in the palm of His hand. Thus schooled by the Loire, I learn to surrender and rest each day and each night as the horrors of this world whirl around me.

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