Babbling Brook

Babbling Minds

A Fontanelle 

Babbling brook, babbling minds,
Life is rushing by,
“Hurry, hurry, try keeping up,
Don’t get too cozy in your nook;”
Then pause to enjoy the land
Slow your mind, talk to me,
Listen to your friend.

Be the brook, caress the land,
Connect with the spirit of;
The brook may sound as babbling,
But the brook runs clear and deep;
The brook gives life.

And what does the babbling mind give back?

—

We made a raft and pushed upstream,
The rapids laughed as we poled our dream;
We floated back and docked on the pier
Under the bridge, a spot so dear.

And every night in bed before the sleep,
The babbling brook sang, sang us deep,
The babble of the brook became a part of us
And we became its trust.

Tuckered out from adventures wild
And after chores, the evening mild,
As night closed in and tomorrow’s dream
Began to roll as real, not just as seem,

The babbling brook babbled on,
Our minds drifted through till dawn;
The breezes blew, the trees they sighed,
Imagination opened wide.

And now I see that babbling brook
Running through her dreams.
She remembers then, forgets the now,
And smiles for all her yesteryear
When peace and babbling meant
Excited voices running rapidly
And laughter then was laughter free.

Still I travel with that babbling brook,
Still I daydream, seeking my wee nook;
Still I’m fishing there for food for thought,
Still recall the fish we caught.

Babbling brook, babbling life,
Travel far, defeat the strife,
The spirit lives, it is the book,
My life lived as a lovely, babbling brook.

We lived beside a river when we children were little. The rapids were at the bend of the river, perhaps a quarter of a mile in from the bridge where my parents ran the country general store. We did indeed fall asleep every summer night to the babbling of the narrow brook part of that old meandering river. It widened out and flowed generously under our old wooden bridge.

I nearly drowned in those rapids. I got caught in the deep end and was pressed there by the volume of water. I did manage, however, to haul myself up and escape. My mom was not pleased when I showed up on the doorstep dripping river water all over the wee porch. Again.

In more recent years, with my wife suffering with Alzheimer’s, her meanderings and apparently meaningless babbling reminded me of that idyllic scene: The going to sleep to the murmur of the brook part.

But what sparked these musings was a Facebook entry from my friend #Ivan Boudreau, in which he made reference to a babbling brook. You just never know what you can hear in the babble if you just listen. Thanks Ivan.

CREDIT: Clip Art. Link broken.