The Silence of the Sleeping Stream
How about taking a pause and listening to this post? I recorded the reading for you.
On the second Sunday of August, I woke up very early, as my destination was to reunite with the old caraibeira trees found in the municipality of Jaguarari, in Bahia.
I cycled 44 km, accompanied by my mother, who knows the region well and has already explored many trails there on her red bicycle.
Along the way, I found almost none of the flowers I used to see. There were no chananas decorating the roadside with their soft yellow, nor the flowers of the catingueiras, with their vibrant colors. There was only the yellow of Senna alata and a vast mass of green.
As I observed all the colors around me, I remembered, while pedaling steadily, that the Caatinga was once called the “white forest.” For several kilometers, I tried to find a reason for this name. Yet all I could see were different shades of green, even on trees that had only a few leaves.
When I arrived at Parque das Caraibeiras, I got off my bicycle, my eyes wandering over the large canopies that gave the place a welcoming light and a pleasant atmosphere.
I believe that, upon entering that area, we are faced with conditions that differ from those found in other places: temperature, humidity, wind, and sunlight. Perhaps these factors favor the formation of a microclimate there. It is something I still want to understand better.
Lowering my gaze, I began to take longer steps as I approached the center of the park. What had once been a beautiful stream had become a long path of soft sand, covered with tiny snails.
It was not easy to hide my surprise. I truly did not expect to find the place that way. But I believe this is also part of the cycles of that territory. To be sure, I need to return throughout the year and observe it over time.
Before, I waited only for the caraibeira trees to bloom. Now, my attention is also turned to the stream. I need to understand its nature and observe how everything reorganizes itself as conditions change.
Even with the Riacho Sulapa asleep, the moment of pause still happened. I spent almost two hours there, between observation, drawing, photographic records, and rest.
A pause to listen to the sound of silence. But what would the sound of silence be like?
The wind...The birds...The movement and rumination of some animals...My own breathing.
A silence that does not represent absence, but presence.
This is the sound of silence that connects me to the park, but also helps me connect with myself. It is in this space that I nourish my creativity, quiet some thoughts, and reconnect with the present moment. This connection has been nourishing the artist, the writer, and the researcher within me.
Walking along the stream, I found two large trees, apparently lifeless yet still standing firm, with beautiful textures and a small opening leading into the trunk. I believe that space may shelter small animals during this period and, at another time, may even have served as a passage for small fish.
They became the protagonists of my sketchbook. I stopped to make a few sketches and took advantage of the beautiful forms they both displayed. Little by little, light strokes gave shape to two old trees that had bloomed beautifully for many years.
Who knows how many people passed by and admired their flowers? Now they remain in the same place, but they are telling another part of that place’s story. And I continue observing, recording, waiting, and connecting with nature and with myself, while nourishing the artist within me.
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