That's Why

Found another metaphor in relation to fly fishing today--I'll connect it up at the end, if I can.

I've often said that the point of going fly fishing is not to catch fish. The point, of course, is the experience: hearing my father hoot from up stream, soaking in the mountain air into my fleece to take home and smell later, watching the sun glint off a thousand translucent may fly wings as they dance above the water, the limestone blue of mountain stream water, a kestrel staring at you from a leaf-spent aspen limb, the lack of electric buzz from power lines and belching diesels, the streams cool caress over my street-stiffened legs, the autumn-leaf cocktails fermenting in the eddies.That's why I fish.

When the trout stares at me, he seems to regard my intent, wondering if I'm his doom or some sort of goofed-up nut that the Big Man sent to teach him a lesson. But I just try to calm him down, tell him he's beautiful if he stays calm and a twerp if he struggles. I think it's ok when, after a good thrash in the net, hooks leave the fishes mouth to draw blood from my finger instead. It injects me with empathy and reverence for them. And I get more of a thrill out of feeling the trout pulse out of my grip as he swims away than I ever get from his tug on my line. I like to smell my hands after I've touched them: wet stones and mud mixed with crushed moss.

Now the metaphor. I don't worry about securing myself a wife or even a date when I'm out about with the populace of options. It's the experience of talking with women, getting to know them, understand their perspectives, humor, pains, melancholies--even tolerating their searching and/or disappointed gazes--that supplies my days with flavor. The feeling of having a beautiful woman fall asleep on my shoulder or chest, the warmth and safety conveyed in her taking my hand, the shine in her eyes when I've helped her feel happy, the warmth of a blanket she gave to me. All joyful memories.

If I worried about how many metaphorical fish I'd caught and been able to land, in social contexts, I'd have snapped and thrown my rod to the wind a long time ago. So I haven't landed the lunker yet (though I imagine women wouldn't appreciate any sort of comparison involving that word). But it'll happen. I'll keep fishing. I'll be patient. Of course, I'd love to catch her soon, but that doesn't take away from the pleasing memories I've soaked in while wading in the "river" that is my life. Even the times of torment have sowed into sprouts of wisdom. I don't mind the process. I embrace it. And on one day in the future I won't release my catch. I'll never expect it, just hope for it. And that will make the experience all the sweeter.