Friday, November 20, 2009. The Sugar Cane Still Waves. The sky was blue when I arose at around six-thirty. That wouldn't last long. A big rainy patch is on its way, and by the time I finished lunch (very good fried catfish, a surprise; we usually get that for dinner on Friday) the skies were overcast. I didn't think there was any danger of rain, so I set out on my favorite walk anywhere. Across a big field where a farmer used to grow broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower, and Brussels sprouts, I climb over the levee and walk downstream. The unique landscape on the other side of the levee has enchanted me since I was a boy. The trees, weeds, flowers, birds, and reptiles there are lifelong friends, and it's nice to see them all there waiting for me.
I wasn't far along the batture before I was forced back onto the levee. The river was higher than I've ever seen it here, coming right up to the levee. There has been an enormous amount of rain this summer in the upper Mississippi's watersheds, and here it is.
It took me an hour to get to my stopping point, about three miles along. That's faster than my usual pace--probably because I couldn't stop to look at turtles and wildflowers along the batture. It left me fatigued. Maybe it was the shoes. I walked many miles around Canada in them, and I thought they were broken in, but I guess not. They were making me walk funny, which takes more energy.
I reclined and rested on the levee across from a vast sugar cane plantation. Big as it is--it extends to the horizon--in recent years it's grown even bigger. Apparently sugar is still a money-maker in Louisiana. That works for me. I love to lie on the levee and gaze out into it, eating satsumas I picked from a tree back at Manresa (they're perfectly ripe now). It's a time and place that gives me such pleasure that I carry its memory in my mind, improving my mood all the rest of the year.
I was really dragging by the time I got back. Why did I not stop and take a rest as I usually do? Maybe that explains everything. I know the time will come when I will no longer be able to take this hike. Any sign of that is cause for concern. But I don't think I'm anywhere near that feeble yet.
Father Lou ends his talks with directed meditation, in which he turns the lights down, asks us to close our eyes, and plays some very calming music while he offers metal images. Very soothing. Perhaps too. In his late-afternoon talk, tired by the stroll and not yet having taken a nap, I couldn't avoid falling asleep. I hope I didn't snore.
Dinner was the lunch of past years: seafood gumbo. I wonder if they're making it in house. Those ladies back there are very good cooks, but this stuff is so excellent that I suspect Mr. Mudbug or John Folse may be the real chefs. The science and art of cooking in advance is so good that it can improve most kitchens.
I redeemed myself tonight by walking all the way to the levee in the dark after the final talk. The statue of St. Joseph, which Hurricane Gustav had knocked down last year, was back on its pedestal at the end of the oak avenue. That was reassuring.
