Hope Floats
What throwing dry flies in winter tells us about how to live
Yeah, I know. Winter is here, both literally and figuratively. The world is falling apart! There are wars and rumors of wars! Donald Trump has been forcibly bounced off the Colorado and Maine ballots for being an insurrectionist, which is against everything the Constitution stands for! Aside from Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment, that is! (And never mind that Donald Trump is not a fan of the Constitution anyway!)
These are overstimulated times, as I think the exclamation-point abuse attests. But according to my Thomas Kinkade Painter of Light® calendar, it’s still the holiday season. The season in which we Christians celebrate J.C. being born, so that he could later go on to die for all of our sins. Some of us having committed more sins to die for than others. (See D.T. graf, above.) So let’s just give the judgment a rest in what remains of this annum. Even the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could use the week off. They’re tired. They’ve worked hard this year, and will likely work even harder, next. There will be time enough in 2024 to gnaw on the skulls of our enemies and for everyone to lather themselves in rage and degradation.
But as counterprogramming, I’ve always liked that beautiful verse in Paul’s epistle to the Philippians: “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
I can only think of one subject all these descriptors apply to: fly fishing. Don’t wince, non-fisherpersons/happiness-haters. Because I rarely-to-never write about fishing merely for fishing’s sake. Fishing is just a vehicle, like all other vehicles, from music to literature to film to spirituality to even lowly politics, that help us flick our Zippo to see where we’re trying to go as we’re bumping around in the dark. As I promised/threatened last week, I’m done creating original works of sparkling prose for the year. I need to get away from my keyboard. Though I’ll be back strong in January. Or Enero, if you’re an illegal migrant reading this on your all-night bus ride to Chicago after jumping the line in Eagle Pass. Life is hard. For the people we agree with, and for the people with whom we don’t. We all have that in common, even if we kid ourselves that we’ve lost all commonality. (We haven’t, it just feels that way sometimes.)
So let’s talk about hope and minor miracles and being surprised and the healing power of getting away from being trapped indoors with the ones we “love.” Here’s a piece I wrote a long time ago — with the generous contributions of a witty fishing guru of mine, whose wisdom is still applicable.