TERRACES

     I am more impressed by the terraces on the steep slopes of a deep mountain valley than by the Taj Mahal, Versailles, or Dubai's Burj Khalifa.   I am more impressed with the accomplishments of quiet generations than with stealth bombers or Smartphones.

     In the spring and again in the fall at my cabin not far from the Clark's Fork River there arises a hightide of mice.  It finds the holes hidden behind the woodpile or near the earth and enters the walls of my dwelling.  At night I hear this season's mice pinging on the bare pointed spikes of nails, making a music as random and beautiful as windchimes or aeolian harps; I hear this season's mice washing up against the 2x4's their forebears have gnawed and eroded part-way through.  This year, or next, they will win through and then, 16 inches deeper into my shelter, begin on a new stud.  Year after year, stud after stud - water running over the same course - they cut deeper.  This is the Tao.  This is the victory of generations.

     The human builders of the terraces return generation after generation, adding a high pond garden for a new son-in-law, capturing and holding high runoff against the mountain's flank

     I think of the generations of peace.  Of honest work.  Of a life-solution that enriches all it encompasses.

     I think of the genius of beavers, of coral.  I think of the genius of honeybees.

     The terrace builders are people much like me, living in a small village slightly upstream.  I wonder if their view is sufficiently broad to appreciate their marvelous creation.

     If I had half a dozen lives, like candles in my hand, I would be honored to burn one among them.