Writing and Fishing
And being torn between these two loves.
I’ve been fishing a lot lately, which is my excuse for not writing and publishing as much as I usually do. It is one of those rare occasions where I am joyfully torn between the things I love the most: fishing and writing. So while I live in the tensions of wonder and becoming, I hope you’ll meet me with an extra dose of kindness.
Whether by boat or knee-deep in the river a few feet from the banks, there is a depth of belonging and becoming that is hard to capture in words. And while only metaphorically swept up in the feeling, perhaps I can offer a singular word: home.
I have lived in many places and in many houses, and I can’t help but come back to the feeling of finally being home. This place, these sacred waters, this beloved community—this is it. This is home. Of course, there is the beauty of the seasons—my favorite being when the fields are green with new growth and the mountains are still covered in snow. I also enjoy it when the fields are brown and the trees in the mountains have turned bright yellow, like little patches of sunshine. I guess when you grew up without seasons, you learn to appreciate them more.
I have been meeting a variety of aquatic friends lately, and that is not a brag about the number of fish I’ve caught. Some of these friends are the bugs that live in the water, the husks they leave behind on the rocks, or the birds flying overhead that eat said bugs and fish. I love it when I see an osprey or eagle near the place where I am fishing—it lets me know I might be onto something. I’ve been splashed by a beaver tail, nearly hooked a muskrat, kissed by a wiener dog that lost its coat battling a downed duck, and endured the soul-piercing stare of a bald eagle sitting overhead. I, for one, am glad that eagles have temporarily decided that I am not food. There is also a unique sense of calm and bliss when I encounter a heron—my other favorite fisher.
To be honest, I don’t really keep count of the fish I’ve caught anymore. Some things in life are just meant to be witnessed and not tallied. Seen but not counted. Occasionally I take pictures of the fish friends I meet. Those are the only mementos I take, and the trout I cherish. One of my guide friends calls the fish his “business partners,” and each is deserving of that level of respect. Whether it be putting up a playful fight, a particularly unique marking, or just that I thought it was pretty—photos are the only things I take. The rest I leave in the current, wondering where it will go.
The more I explore the outdoors, find new fish friends, and offer a watchful presence to the hatching of bugs, the more I am able to be present to myself, my patients, and my family. I find that I am slowing—not because I am weary—but in the careful way one walks on ice. There is a need for balance, trust, and intention that only comes from moving deliberately.
I try to handle my catches carefully, ensuring the least amount of shock and trauma to the fish as possible. I net them, remove the hook, occasionally catch a quick photo, and send them on their way. I want them to get back to their home as soon as possible.
On one occasion, I released a beautiful brown trout back to the river, and she came and nestled into my leg that was kneeling in the current. She stayed there for a while. Part of me wanted to believe it was her way of saying thanks (we fisher folk tend to get sentimental about things like this). But more likely, she had mistaken my leg for a boulder that offered a break from the current while she recovered. I stayed for as long as she needed.
When I’m not sure what bug to tie on, I sit on the riverbank and watch. Are there any bugs hatching? Is the water level higher than normal? Would a worm imitation work better than a stonefly? Or something flashy and bright? There is a lot to see when you take the time to watch. I look under rocks to see what bugs are hanging out there, and I observe some more.
This isn’t unlike being a chaplain. Most of the time when I’m with a patient, I’m watching. I look for signs of pain, words of grief, tones of hope, and symbols of meaning. Conversations with patients are a lot like fly fishing—tie something on and see if they bite.
I’ve certainly tied on the wrong fly before, just like I’ve told a joke that apparently only I thought was funny. I’ve stubbornly fished a new pattern I tied because I wanted the validation from a fish—that I, too, can create a tasty bug. And I have felt the letdown of not getting any takes.
I wonder what other patterns in myself and in my fly box I am ready to let go of?
I’ve sat with patients who are unable to talk. Sometimes all I can observe is their slowing pattern of breathing—the subtle growing distance between breaths. The faint smiles when a loved one speaks. I wonder what stories they could tell if only I had the chance to meet them a few days earlier.
I approached a few new places to fish this past week and was met with the same sense of curiosity and wonder. What new friends are in these depths? What bugs were hatching? Should I have been here a few hours earlier?
I tend to think about a lot of things when I am on the river, yet very rarely do I come to any firm conclusions. Perhaps that is part of the mystery and wonder between the sacred and the mundane.