My father fished as a religion. His days off, his sabbath, was spent in a battered row boat, sitting, waiting for the fish to bite. The First Church of Fishing created much better people than those in my mother’s church. I didn’t really catch either of their faiths, but I was shaped by them. Perhaps faith is something one can really only come to on your own. She took me to her church on a regular Sunday

But when I was very lucky, he’d take me with him. He quickly learned that I had no interest in the death of fish. Or their consumption. I wanted nothing to do with fish dinner. Bur I was fascinated with their fishy lives. I would lean out of the boat until I could almost touch the water with my face, to look in on their fishy world.

I remember his hand on my shirt, lightly caught from the back just in case I slipped. I suspect that taking me fishing was very different than fishing on his own. But he never complained or refused to bring me. He just knew the day wouldn’t be spent in the catching of fish.

One of the things we do working in series, is that we retell our stories. Memory is not a static box. It’s a fluid river than changes moment to moment. In retelling the story, we find a way to make ourselves more brave, more healed, more whole. I know that I grow through series, working the images until they heal me.

To turn to turn, will be our delight, till by turning, turning we come round right.

Shzker song

If there’s an image or subject that catches your soul, even if it frightens you or unsettles you, work with it. It’s part of you trying to find it’s place, turned round right.

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