I chased a dream and followed myself to the 'Lake at the End of the River.' You would probably call it the beginning of the river because you first think of where the river flows through and to, whereas I always think about where it is coming from. Seeing the world backwards from the norm has its place, dancing backwards has a purpose which cannot be denied, when one hears that song being played. I would rather live down river from no one and above all the rapids, waterfalls and discharges along the way. Life is not perfect at the Lake at the End of the River, but it never is anywhere anyway. Here it is merely pure, untainted and unabused.

I have changed. I have been transposed and am transitioned into something better than I have been, into exactly what I should be when at the Lake at the End of the River. I gift myself that little 'peace of mind' that comes with standing on the shore of the little Lake at the End of the River. I consider, I reflect, I am bound to thoughts not free to fly elsewhere. I know this place, better than I know my own family, my own life, and the meager Way I am walking through existence. For these moments at the edge of the Lake at the End of the River, I am truly free, free of myself, free of my 'mountain of things', free of the opinions that bind me foolishly to all the problems of my own making and free, free at last from the slavery to time.

Life at the Lake at the End of the River is neither too slow nor too fast, but it is just right. The water is clear, you can see to the bottom, the menomin is heavy and the musky can be seen stalking the edge. The muskrat is the king of this lake, it is the farmer, the toiler, the master of the rice beds, and it grows enough for you and me, and the rice will be safe as long as the muskrat and musky are safe. A loon laments on the Lake at the End of the River and starts the sun setting, as a fog on the shore blends the deer in near ghostly refrain. In that moment I know we're all safe at our place on the Lake at the End of the River.

Here at the source, where the springs feed the clear the waters of the Lake at the End of the River, life is unpolluted by any of the ten-thousand rationalizations we pluck out daily. Nor is it condemned by bets placed on the cards dealt by the hands of greed. Here no such thoughts arise because the purity of the Lake at the End of the River washes them away, like a scab falling off unnoticed, and unmourned.

There is a very special scent here at the Lake at the End of the River. It penetrates everything, the rocks, the soil, the water, the plants and lo and behold even us. It is shared by the newest born fawn and the oldest muskrat, by the dew and the rain drops, by the frost and freeze over; for it is the odiferous sign post of 'being in the here and the now.' It is a welcoming smell, familiar, yet unfamiliar, pleasing yet disturbing in its subtlety. Those who have never wafted the aroma before, might assume the worst and try to mask their own aroma, with scents unbecoming the Lake at the End of the River. I am infused with it, I breath it in like the vapors of a priestly prayer, I honor the aroma, I am marked by it and it by me. I accept it and with it the place accepts me, I am reconnected. The scent at the Lake at the End of the River is the aroma of the untouched spirit, the pure thought and the silent meaning of life.

The Ricers are here at the Lake at the End of the River, with their canoes, their poles and their cedar knockers, gathering the rice worms with the rice. The rice worm is the lynch pin of this place, without the worm there is no rice, there is no muskrat, there is no musky, there are no ducks, geese, loons or even a lone pair of swans to claim the Lake at the End of the River as their own. It is a 'buggy' job knocking rice; a job that would repel the gentrified of this world. Whereas the Ricers on the Lake at the End of the River just laugh and refer to the worms as a little 'protein' in the rice, they know how old this relationship is. When others show their disgust, I only see ignorance in action. The worm, the muskrat, the musky, the loon, the swan and the Ricer are all dancing the Rice Dance on the Lake at the End of the River, just as it should be, just as it has been for more time than even the dust of the bones can remember.

Here at the Lake at the End of the River I am re-created. Other might come here for recreation, but this is not a place to play such games. Such games are shallow and destructive; as if they were leeches sucking the sacred sustenance out of our spirits. They encompass the lies we end up living down to, rather that the dreams and visions we were meant to live up to. Respect is not a sport. Honor is not a bag limit. What is fun is rarely funny when viewed from this quiet shore on the Lake at the End of the River. We are what we are and we return from whence came. I have returned and I am re-created. At the Lake at the End of the River the waters are born, they gather, they flow and spread life across the face of this land and they feed the roots of life, mine and even yours, no matter how much we might want to deny it. We are all connected, we are each a minuscule part of, rather than Lord and Master over; the Lake at the End of the River. To deny this is to deny our spiritual nature; which it the fatal human flaw.

In those places that many call the 'real world,' far from these shore on the Lake at the End of the River, the bells of institution are pealing and the time clocks are being punched and our time is again is no longer owned by us, for we will have again sold our souls for something less fulfilling. Time is not owned, it is shared, it is relished, it is worn like an old love in a young heart; time is lived through rather than being sold like so many peanuts in the store; here at the Lake at the End of the River, time is the most precious thing we share.

Some where children, like Pavlov's dogs, are responding to the bells and being forced to learn lessons not molded by necessity, but by the hands of greed and the unrelenting needs of others. There, being merely different is abhorrent. Here, children learn without force, because at the Lake at the End of the River, learning is in the water, it bubbles up like the springs; here being different is celebrated, praised, adored, because being different offer new possibilities rather than the same old fare, it offers hope rather than hopelessness. Learning is in the food of the first breath of the morning and in the repast of the last breath of the evening. Dipping ourselves in the water's of the Lake at the End of the River is the only baptism a 'real' human being needs. Here we learn ourselves real at last.

There is no clock to punch here when one awakes to greet the sun rising over the Lake at the End of the River. The day starts itself; it doesn't require a human being to tell it to start. No one makes the muskrat punch in. No one tracks a musky's time, nor has a rice worm ever been late for work. There are no efficiency studies on going on the Lake at the End of the River, for efficiency is not a positive quality here, only timeliness is. Learning the signs of the times, and the ways of nature, learning when to knock rice and when not to, when gather medicinals and when not to, takes a life time to absorb. Time is life, and to sell our time is to sell our souls. Alas Babylon this is how we have enslave ourselves, again. A life time is what the Lake at the End of the River gifts us; a life time to learn the silent lessons, where the only test is survival and where the only grade that will ever matter is in the smile of a child.

The silence of the rice beds on the Lake at the End of the River can be deafening to unaccustomed ears. All that silence can be easily filled up with a single fear or foreboding thought that one brings with them. They will fear the wood tick, the bear, the wolf, they will see terror behind every tree and danger in every step; they make themselves one of the terrorized, they will spread their terror like dog spreading fleas. You see, they live down to their worst portents, while missing the beautiful rhythm of the poling and knocking of the rice, in the Rice Dance on the Lake at the End of the River. They will have bought into the terror and failed to drink in the medicine. They have failed to be natural human beings.

Those that come to the Lake at the End of the River and feel such fear and foreboding have brought it with them and they will drive themselves away, for if they cannot find peace of mind here, they will not find it anywhere. At the Lake at the End of the River, we have to face our true natures and all the lies and rationalizations we have told ourselves for years, and as they are exposed to the sun, they will fall away like so much dead skin. Here we see ourselves in the raw; without pride, without status, without honor, helpless, except for the natural abilities we have been given. Here it is not what we have, but what we can do, what we can teach, and what we can share with others that gives us meaning, for here we are all equalized by a breeze that blows off the waters from the Lake at the End of the River.

To be but a rock here along the shore at the edge of the Lake at the End of the River, would be as close as we could get to perfection. To withstand the whims, foolishness, stupidity, fear and greed of the human beast is what a rock does best. Oh, yes a rock can be cleaved but then one merely has more rocks, and the rock remains, transformed, but not destroyed, merely altered and moving on down time. The Rocks at the Lake at the End of the River talk so loud we will barely hear them. They talks so slow we rarely ever give them time to finish a single syllable. Giving time to rocks and to the humus and to the grass along the shore of the Lake at the End of the River is the only way to open the 'Doors of Perception' and to close the 'Terrorizing Traps of Delusion' forever.

Here along the shore of the Lake at the End of the River, I am old, I am young, I am wise and I am foolish all in one breath, all at the same time, and it makes me human and paints me complete. I exist without caring about the opinions of others, yet those shadows cross my brow, and stir the quietest waters. I can make myself small to see the Lake at the End of the River as filling up the universe. I can make myself big and see it as but a speck of dust in time. The only limits I have are those I place upon myself. I can destroy, I can abuse, I can taint, I can morally trespass all reason and all truth, here at the Lake on the End of the River, but to do so, would be to destroy abuse, taint and trespass on the reason I am meant to infuse myself to this place. There is no need for me to take the moral high ground here, no need to control the destiny of the Lake at the End of the River, for it has already washed those things down river long before I first tread upon its shore. It has freed itself of such foolishness so that I can learn to likewise free myself. Beyond wise, beyond foolish, beyond all, is the Lake at the End of the River.

I have watched sunrises on the Lake at the End of the River, and seen the greatest Mass never spoken. The glory of creation is born each day in the eastern sky. I have seen the world bent low in respect to the rhythm of the Lake at the End of the River. I have seen the musky and muskrat watch the sunrise. I have seen the loon and the swan stilled by the beauty. I have seen the doe stop and drink the visual in. I have seen respect respecting itself and with it the hoop of life mended again, as must be with every morning here at the Lake at the End of the River.

Hail the Up Lands, hail the headwaters, hail the beginnings, where all the Lakes at the End of the Rivers are, where distance is measured in 'pauses' and pipes and time is what time should be, transfixed to the spirit. When I stand and see the old portage trails that lead down the hills, towards the Big Lake or over the Great Divide to the lowlanders in south, I feel all of those innumerable spirits walking by again and again and again. A part of me will always be here, a part of me walks with them again, and again, as it should be. Yes, as it must be.

Some spend their lives seeking perfection, while the Lake at the End of the River tells me there is no such thing as perfection when humans are involved. Perfection is a pipe dream, smoked by those who feel lost in a world they cannot understand; by those who feel they must control the uncontrollable and never learn that the only way to tame ourselves is to first quiet the spirits of our own making. Then at last we might see that the only way to save the world is to tame ourselves, to stand guard over the worst intentions while at the same time, sharing, helping and partaking in the daily rebirth of the natural community. Here at the Lake at the End of the River, nature shows us that perfection is not something sought, but something only recognized in hindsight.

Maybe it is because I want to live above the rest of you at the Lake at the End of the River. Maybe it is because you could never find the place but by accident. Maybe it is because of the tobacco tie I left Island at the Center of the Lake at the End of the River years ago that I am here. It is a sacred place where one still can find the gift of such ties and even the occasional spirit dish, to feed the spirits of the giants whose only remains are the decaying stumps that strew this land; 'tis why the loon's lament is 'where are the white pines,' and it echoes over the Island at the Center of the Lake at the End of the River; can't you hear the echoes, or is it that you just don't want to?

'Ya-honk' echoes from the sky and I look up to see a broken 'vee' of geese passing southward from some distant northland, passing over the Lake at the End of the River. As if by second thought, by the lyrics of some long remembered song, they turn and slowly spiral downward and land at the edge of the Rice Beds on the Lake at the End of the River. For a time they feast, they rebaptize themselves, they rest, they reflect and they repose in a perfect moment, in the perfect place, in a perfect way. They do not need to ask 'What is life?' They know it by living it. They already know it is the breath of the buffalo in winter. They already know it is the shadows ever moving slowly along the shore of this Lake at the End of the River. They know it as ten thousand things I am never be capable of perceiving. They know this without words, without institutions to teach them, without someone telling them they have to learn it. They have learned it because of what they are, where they are, why they are, and not because of what other think they have to become. They sing the song of life with every beat of their wings on high. When they depart as if to say 'amen,' they arise, they take wing again and translate themselves once more into beings of the sky and leave for a while, for a mere season, this Lake at the End of the River.

A day well spent on the Lake at the End of the River, is one that greets the sunrise with a sigh of relief and bids adieu to the sunset with a bookend sigh. It makes us live in natural cycles, rather than the man-made cycles of greed and needs that are mirages that can never to be fulfilled and are only meant to falsely motivate and control our spirits. Why do we chase our own tails? Is it because all the other puppies are chasing their tails? At the end of the day, as I close my eyes and my last sight is of moonlight reflecting off the shimmering waters of the Lake at the End of the River; I see the history of this place and my place in it, I know my spirit will roam this place for as long as spirits roam. You may not know my name, but you will feel me brush by as I point out the wholeness of simply being yourself here, and now, as it is meant to be at the Lake at the End of the River.

The Great Cycle of Life is as clear as a desert sky in early morning, here at the Lake at the End of the River. It is symbolic and solid, it is thought and it is form, it is life undivided, unmodified and free of the human delusions and the rationalizations we leave in our wake. This is why there is an Island at the Center of the Lake at the End of the River. Everything needs a centering point, a place of beginning, a place of ending, a place of renewal, a point for the universe to pivot around. On the Island at the Center of the Lake at the End of the River one can feel big and yet small at the same time, marked and yet unmarked, moved and yet unmoved by the flow of life.

In the Dawn at the Lake at the End of the River, I watch my breath form in feathery wisps that leave my mouth as prayers, as offerings, as smiles in physical form. They float, they dissipate; yet they will remain and echo silently across this place forever. I smile again and dream myself into a snowflake, falling from the greatest height, spinning, twirling, and ever downward, slowly coming home. At first I see it all; 'the Entirety' of existence and at the center is this little Lake at the End of the River. Ever closer, ever nearer, ever slower I fall into it. At last I become one with the waters of the Lake at the End of the River. As I melt and transfuse myself to the greater part of the whole, an avalanche of understanding permeates my spirit. Knowledge without words, wisdom without scars, understanding beyond all value; at last I have again returned and become a part of the Lake at the End of the River.

I strip my soul bare, and bear up to the moment, here at the Lake at the End of the River. I present myself, ungilded, scar covered, old, and decrepit: washed free of fear. I offer my all to the All, for that is all I have ever had to offer. Then the Springs at the Bottom of the Lake at the End of the River, gurgle like a new born feeling the free form of life for the first time. I am reminded, remolded, reinvigorated by the flow of life itself moving ever upwards from the bowels of the earth. I feel my spirit renewed in time, in form and reformulated. My spirit flows in and out and over and under and through everything that has ever sprung forth, and that will ever spring forth, from here at the Lake at the End of the River.

Such is the place at the Lake at the End of the River. Here at its' springs, it is a wee river that begins the long road to every other place, because here at the Lake at the End of the River, life begins, the road begins, and it flows down to and through the rest of you. Everything begins at the Lake at the End of the River. All roads might lead to Rome, but all roads begin from here. And for now my roads end here.

Here, at the Lake at the End of the River, the thoughts of all the spirits, of all the beasts of the waters, land and sky, gather and dance the sky electric. They move stars, the moon, the sun and life. Here, where no living fool has ever had to be tolerated, they laugh, they cry, the feast upon the past, the present and the future. They greet Star Nation, they pierce the Hole in the Sky, they 'Snake Dance' along the Milky Way, and in this they tie together the living and dead, and they bind forever those that have passed beyond and those yet to stir. They pivot with each step of the dance on the thoughts of those of us living in the here and the now. Their dance blesses us with food, for our hearts, souls, minds and bodies. They dream dance us alive, they dance us real and all we can do is honor them by spending a bit of our time, standing in awe of the Dance of Life here at the Lake at the End of the River.

Spread my ashes where the wild rose grows, here on the shore of the Lake at the End of the River. Feel my touch when the rice worms crawl across your neck. Know my nature when the loon stirs you from your sleep. Here, dream the lessons real, learn instinctively that a 'true human' being is merely a savage that has saved themselves from themselves and their own worst portents; so that we at last will know that to sell ourselves short is to sell the future short and to condemn the human race - Save yourself, and save the world, as you sit quietly along the shore of the Lake at the End of the River & leave your own tobacco tie for all of those that have proceeded you, leave it on that little Island at the Center of the Lake at the End of the River just as I did, so long ago; and tie yourself forever to this place.