For years, I kept a clipping from the New York Times pinned to a wall in my studio, an aerial view of the Platt River basin in Nebraska.

In 1970 the river flooded, wiping out acres of farmland and homes along its banks. After the water receded, disregarding the re-routing it had undergone to shape those acres, the river reclaimed its one hundred year old bed, returned to its past and settled in.

The river of life is, in equal parts, identical. We return to our past, our beds, our roots, our memories. In a moment, past, present and future merge together in a swiftly moving current. Standing on the banks, we watch familiar pieces of debris drift by, some soaked in the tears of regret, others log jammed and trapped, and still others tumbling along pulling us downstream in hopes of capturing the essence of the moment in which they made an unforgettable mark on our heart.




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