My Dad, Birds and Visits in Meditation.

Birds.

I had a really moving experience last year, and I haven’t written about it until now.That’s sort of how it goes for me. It’s hard to tell myself to sit down and write. I do not like being told what to do, even when it’s me doing the telling.

Jessica Bond offered a creative meditation afternoon one day at Carson House, and it remains one of the most incredible gifts I’ve been given. It was a guided meditation for creativity. Fifteen minutes total, limited to a small group of eight.

The first ten minutes were the slow entrance into the experience. We were at Carson House, stretched out on yoga mats, bolsters tucked under knees and backs, settled in the way you do when you know it’s safe to rest.

Jessica guided us into a natural space. Walking up a trail. Being outside. The kinds of trees you might encounter. Sunlight filtering through leaves. The temperature of the air, the feel of it on skin. The sound the leaves made as we moved through the space. What lived just off the trail, half seen, half imagined. Water somewhere nearby. Birds. The feeling of a beautiful day unfolding in an environment of your own choosing. For that 10 minutes, she suggested the outline, but you filled in the details. Your trees. Your light. Your sounds

And then, for the last 5 minutes we were invited to find, in our minds, a body of water that moved us. Oceans, rivers, streams. I immediately went to Spring Creek.

Spring Creek is a body of water in Oklahoma that has been protected and fought for, and it remains one of the purest creeks in Oklahoma. My dad loved Spring Creek so deeply that he bought property there in 1980, and it’s where our family has gathered every Thanksgiving since 1982. It’s also where my dad’s ashes were scattered when he died in 1999. It holds a powerful, layered meaning for my family.

In the final five minutes of the meditation, I walked into a clearing. The creek opened up in a way that felt familiar but not exact, like memory does. Shallow water spread wide, drenched in sunlight, Oklahoma rock visible beneath the surface, dotted with that black and white striped stone you see so often at Spring Creek.

And there was my dad.

Dwayne C. Pollard: A bird hunter, a nature conservationist and a fabulous man.

He was sitting on a folding chair out in the water over the rocky creek bed only a few inches deep, He was the age he would be now, 85, wearing clothes he would wear now. Khaki pants, the kind people wear when they fish in running water. A vest. A plaid flannel. A brimmed hat.

He was watercoloring birds on a sketchbook.

And in that moment, I understood something. I got my art from my dad. And if he were alive today, we would be making a book together. A book of watercolor birds.

The end. Or not.