Beware of the rampage. Consider yourself warned.
I recently visited the drainage ditch behind our place, officially called The Creek. I was awed by the incredible biodiversity. All types of plants, bushes, flowers, rushes, and grasses grow in or along The Creek. Plus, there are singing insects and their less musical relations; the frogs and their slimy, bubbly noises; and all sorts of watery creatures that I didn't see, but knew were there anyway.
The orderly randomness of nature fascinates me - but it's exceedingly difficult to describe. Essentially, whatever grows best, lives. How can beauty arise from mere competition?
Parts of The Creek were completely overgrown with flowering bushes. Hidden were the steep banks, hidden were the flowing contours, hidden was the very water. Partially hidden were some sort of red berries that I would have killed for as a kid. And so the journey to nostalgia begins.
Large bushes are a monument to passing time. They never had a chance to grow while certain young boys were on the move. Mighty waterworks we built: large-scale dams, locks, reservoirs, islands, and dredging projects. These grand constructions, however, were products of cognitive maturity. The history of The Creek began years before our brains bloated. The history of The Creek began with a curiously endless succession of muddy pants.
The Creek's entertainment started with its wildlife: both human friends and animals. We were captivated by trying to capturing everything we could: frogs, tadpoles, minnows, crayfish, and even a snake or two. On bold and blood-thirsty days, we armed ourselves with sling-shots and obscure plant bulbs (don't ask me to explain) and set out frog hunting. Luckily for the frogs, our aim was atrocious.
Depending on who you ask, age brought compassion. In this case, it meant tormenting frogs instead of attempting to murder them. We were geeks from the get-go. Cutting-edge technology in the form of odd bits of PVC pipe revolutionized our fun. Bopping frogs on the head grew boring swiftly. A new method involved carefully sucking the pipe full of water and blasting a frog with a tremendous water canon salute. Another favourite was placing the end of the pipe directly beneath a frog and levitating it by blowing bubbles like mad. Fortunately for us, the frogs were too stupid to find a new location along The Creek.
Although summer brought the highlights, winter could be great fun. Well, except for a singular sledding incident. My older siblings constructed a great snow jump on the steep bank - and were too chicken to try it themselves. So yours truly was stuffed squalling into a small sled and shoved heartily down the slope. They thought it was fantastic. My tongue, on the other hand, suffered from a close encounter with my teeth. As you can see, the term "compassion" is rather ambiguous.
The past wasn't without terror - maybe the rustling in the grass was something more than a muskrat! But as I wandered and remembered and relived, I smiled. The memories I have forgotten remain forgotten, for I can't remember that I have forgotten them. My journey ended as I considered nostalgia of itself.
As we know, events happen before nostalgia happens. What would happen if we would switch the two around; have nostalgia before the event happened? What are those feelings of "having been here before" or "having experienced this previously," even though you can't remember when or how?
I have heard the thought that heaven is like earth, only far more real. (And perfect, obviously.) How can something be more real than the reality we live in? But maybe it's this way: maybe the reality we live in now is just the nostalgia. Maybe the love, joy, and peace we experience here feels faded by time in comparison to heaven's reality. Maybe the real event is yet to come.
Am I crazy? Quite likely. But whatever you do, don't hold me responsible for ideas encountered through nostalgia.
