Rivers Run Dry: an essay by local author John Bragstad
Nov 03, 2023 10:21AM ● By Content Editor
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By local author and writer John Bragstad - Boreal Community Media - November 3, 2023
The secular school attempts to explain things and creates
knowledge. The religious school teaches one to
contemplate things in such a way that it creates wonder.
Mastering Sadhana: Carlos G. Valles, S.J.
In the spring, there is the wild ecstasy of water cascading down
the sides of the hills towards Lake Superior. It forms rivulets that
gather into canyons of rock that, over centuries, have carved out
paths to this ancient sea.
Rivers this time of year do not look like that. For the most part,
they are dry as fall reaches into the winter months. They will have
their purpose later when snowmelt gathers in the interior, but
now they are merely tributes to the birth of spring. Such
riverbeds are mute. There is no song to be sung.
This is a testament to so much of life. Rivers run dry. As a writer, I
am aware of this. Some days, it is as though the waters
themselves were writing my words. They rush to me faster than I
can write them down.
Other days are different from this. Writing takes work; there is
nothing to say. There is no inner impulse to offer something
tangible to myself or others. The creek is dry, and the rocky
ravines leading to the lake are empty.
By local author and writer John Bragstad - Boreal Community Media - November 3, 2023
The secular school attempts to explain things and creates
knowledge. The religious school teaches one to
contemplate things in such a way that it creates wonder.
Mastering Sadhana: Carlos G. Valles, S.J.
In the spring, there is the wild ecstasy of water cascading down
the sides of the hills towards Lake Superior. It forms rivulets that
gather into canyons of rock that, over centuries, have carved out
paths to this ancient sea.
Rivers this time of year do not look like that. For the most part,
they are dry as fall reaches into the winter months. They will have
their purpose later when snowmelt gathers in the interior, but
now they are merely tributes to the birth of spring. Such
riverbeds are mute. There is no song to be sung.
This is a testament to so much of life. Rivers run dry. As a writer, I
am aware of this. Some days, it is as though the waters
themselves were writing my words. They rush to me faster than I
can write them down.
Other days are different from this. Writing takes work; there is
nothing to say. There is no inner impulse to offer something
tangible to myself or others. The creek is dry, and the rocky
ravines leading to the lake are empty.
That may be true for you as well. That may be life. We take in
information and stimuli, and we enjoy moments when there is a
confluence where it all comes together. We ride its rising tide to
the limit. But then, it is gone. It drains away. Ideas/connections to
people do not stop, but they recede.
Living in a land where winter will soon impose its own story, we
must remember that, even as it does so, it is writing a new
chapter in the snow that accumulates deep in the shadows,
between the lakes, and on the lake surfaces.
I go to the border to witness the ageless display of spring as the
waters of the Pigeon River spill over and drop some 120 feet. It is
a remarkable event to be there when, in the great gathering,
eager waters organize in their race to Superior.
But then, I also go in autumn to a bridge where I stand and
search for trickles of water moving under the hardscrabble of flat
rocks leading to the lake.
It is quite an ordinary site, but different from times when it will be
more than a dried-up creek bed. Even then, I am grateful for what
it holds as it waits patiently for another day.
Adapted from “Rivers Run Dry,”
Compass Season by John Bragstad
Compass Season by John Bragstad
About the author
John A. Bragstad has been a therapist, working with couples and individuals, for 25 years. He is self-published and is enjoying retirement. Lake Superior is just off his front porch.
He has written three books: Compass Season, Loon Laughter at Midnight, and Who's Watching Whoo? They are available in Grand Marais at Drury Lane and Lake Superior Trading Post, or at Amazon.com.
Related: Meet your Boreal Community Media Freelance Journalist: John Bragstad
