Goldmine Brook, 8.2.26

 The water splashes against the rocks with a power that I cannot measure except in my emotions.

I can hear it now as I write.

The sound is indescribable.

But I do know that the sound is seared into my brain.

Because returning to this place means that I have opened my heart and let my mind be at peace.

This place has instilled in me the life I already have.

The nature I already possess.

Yesterday happened to be a Sunday and it was not the day I was here but at another place where life is teeming and the water is flowing and the sun was shining for a bit until it disappeared behind the hillside. 

Yesterday, I figured out why Goldmine Brook has become sacred to me. For I was brought to this place by my forever friend, someone with whom I would experience hearbreak and mending at distinctly different times. The friend who saw that I was so deeply blue and full of grief that my spirit needed lifting. 

Photo by Richard Laurie

A guardian angel swooped me up and placed me where I was supposed to be.

In my mind and in my heart so I could rediscover my soul.

copyright 2026 Lyn Horton

The Gorge, August 9, 2026

It has been years since I have been to the Gorge with my forever friend. 

We used to go every Sunday and walk for at least three miles. 

Coming back with him was such a strange experience.

Sort of deja vu. But not really.

We did not walk three miles.

Because my friend couldn't make that anymore.

We did notice how much the trail had changed, not necessarily for the best.

The trail was rockier. The sides of the trails were worn down. No sprouting greenery nor fungi.

The trail had been ravaged. From walking, running, ATVs, cars and trucks. I mean, really, why aren't these people using motors on wheels to go down the trail, walking? 

Cars and wheeled vehicles did not always exist. How did people used to explore the trail? 

It goes on for fourteen miles before it flattens out and ends with the river into a dam.

We still took pictures because that is what we have always done. 

The light danced on the moving water.

The water bugs hovered over the rocks in the water.

The curls riding through the water contrasted the light from above with the motion of the river.

We sat by the water for awhile. 

It was calming as it always has been. 

We saw the sky, we sat on the earth, we were in the between.

Breathing the air.

And extending our health.

On the same level as everything else.

copyright 2026 Lyn Horton

Retrieving My Balance

Climbing over rocks, going up hill, stepping on stones in the water to get to a rock to sit on takes practice. 

I am out of practice. 

It has been years since I have hiked where there is a brook, a river, rocks, the trees, and the breeze. 

My balance is off. 

I twist my body up needlessly when I am trying to ascend uneven terrain because I do not trust myself to stay upright. 

All the words that are out there about being in nature to restore yourself are true. At least for me. 

I used to go alone. I stopped. 

Now I go with someone who knows how to traverse the trails, and brings my attention to things I might miss. 

We actually do that for each other: the missing part. The seeing part. The appreciation part. 

I am not making this up. 

 

I am taking pictures again like I used to. Creating a mental compendium of forms and references.

Gardner State Park, June 7, 2026 water 7

Gardner State Park, June 7, 2026 looking up 3

Gardner State Park, June 7, 2026 water 1

Gardner State Park, June 7, 2026 trees and river

No one can see me better than the person who accompanies me. 

That is true now.

 

And it will be true tomorrow.

copyright 2026 Lyn Horton

Too Long

A question I ask myself often is why have I stopped going into the woods and absorbing all of the smells, sounds, and sights of beauty? The story is too long. But the short of it is I live in this little one-floor condo into which I have somehow boxed myself. Everything I own is within reach, although to be honest, there is a lot of art I cannot find no matter how much time I take looking. Within the past two days, I have been so tired, I can hardly keep my eyes open. The energy I expended planting what few flowers I have to plant, spreading mulch, and then, on the third day, cleaning my abode, must have been the same amount of energy I put out running a race. But, recently, the friend with whom I explored the woods before years ago, re-entered my life and now I have a companion who can accompany me on my walks. I have tried it alone, but it was into places that I knew so well that I felt as though I was already in the company of someone. Aloneness describes more than a physical situation. Aloneness becomes a state of mind.

Tell me how much I see. Tell me how much anxiety is relieved from my being.

As the water moves, so do the invisible pulsations of my brain. I am desirous of being the water. Of embracing the water in the life of its own but on which so much depends.

The pictures identify my longing for being in my environment. I just don't mean standing there; I mean disappearing into it. Maybe that day will come all too soon. When I remember my life in the woods, the mental images are so vivid. I can even remember being in the places where I took the pictures. And the events surrounding coming to and leaving the water.

Tell me you love me and I will return. If not in the steps coming toward you, but in the emotions thinking about you.

- May 25, 2026

Back to the Woods and Water, Easter, 2023

So far, having moved my residence from a small town to a small city forty minutes away by car has presented no problems. Yet because life unfolds the way it does, issues crop up when least expected and the world implodes. Thankfully winter has receded and the ice is gone. I can go where I please and walk and hike without cleats on the bottom of my shoes. To find solace, I seek the woods and the water, even if it trickles. At the beginning of spring, water tends to flow more fully and visibly than in the depths of summer. The virgin green of spring has yet to arrive. It is as though everything is slowly waking up. But a day will come when suddenly the leaves on the trees will have unfolded and the bulbs will have bloomed to face the heat of the sun. Photos copyright 2023 Lyn Horton

In Oregon in 2022

Years have passed since I have seen my son in Oregon. 

Certainly not during Covid, which time included moving from Worthington to North Adams, MA.

This year was special because my son was married in a beautiful small ceremony in a community park on a glorious sunny fall day.

The following photographs were taken when my son took me on a hike at Tumalo Falls and a walk along the Deschutes River.

Away Too Long

Because I am aging, my body needs longer to recover from physical activity. And since July of this year, I have been too riveted to my new living situation to leave it on Sundays. But yesterday was an exception. 

Not much rain has come down these last few months, so I have believed that where I would go or where I would want to go, no water would be flowing in streams, over the rocks, and or cascade in a waterfall. But, in this instance, I was wrong.

We need water in our bodies and in our lives. No debate can be had on that subject.

Just the sound of it flowing makes a difference to me. As it does for many.  Water flowing equates with time. As water flows, so do the minutes of dwelling on the appreciation of who we are on the planet and realizing how blessed we are when we are out of harm's way. 

We are witnessing vast and severe changes to the earth. We must preserve and persevere with the momentum of caring for it, stabilizing the huge swings in climate, and letting our voices be heard. 

Cascades Trail, North Adams, MA

photo copyright 2022 Lyn Horton