Walt Whitman’s Poem, “Crossing Brooklyn Bridge,” reminds me in Stanza 6 to be conscious of my river in a new way: “Just as you are refreshed by the gladness of the river, and the bright flow, I was refreshed.”

First, a short reverie about my river, The Mystic River and the Seaport Museum that celebrate the river’s shipbuilding and whaling legacy as part of the nation’s vast maritime history. The name Mystic comes from the Native American term “missi-tuk” which means where the salt water and fresh water meet and mingle.

The whale bones are but dust or fancy carved and etched: rancid memory of whale flesh rendered charnel, now just history for school children. The hulls of oaken whalers speak of brine and the hunt. Their decks, worn and bloodied, groan from the weight of iron cauldrons —reeking of ocean massacres. Who thinks of these things on a summer day when tourists only glance at a river with such stories while preferring ice cream and sunset sails?

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For over twenty five years I’ve lived at the very edge of the eastern shore of the Mystic River. And I would say that there has been great joy, great gladness for those years I’ve had a river for a companion, a muse, and once in a while, a terrorist! First of all, there is a quality of light reflected by my river. Riverlight is the sunlight that reflects off the water’s surface and dances on my ceiling when the sun comes around to the western sky. There’s a playfulness to it that never fails to delight me.

The river connects the towns of Mystic, Groton and Noank and feeds out into Long Island Sound. I’m more interested in the moods, in the mind of the river than its nautical fine points. The steadiness of her tides and her currents create a meditative state for me. Most days, the rise and fall of the tide creates a rhythm in my life. But she can also be irregular — even destructive — when a Nor’Easter blows through or a hurricane wends its way up the coast. We are not immune from the increasingly intensifying weather due to climate change.

This beloved river has had some remarkable visitors over the years. My first winter here, I shrieked with joy at the sight of a shiny, black head popping up right in front of my window. A curious young seal was larking about only a few feet from me. I’m sure my heart skipped a beat. There are other visitors, too. I have loved the arrival of The Mayflower from Plymouth, MA as she journeys on her way to rehabilitation stints at the Seaport. She’s here now for an extended stay.

An entry from my river journal tells the tale of another visitor: An early summer evening on the river, at first cloudy, then a few raindrops, and then the unexpected and rare call of a loon. Binoculars in hand, I spot him on the far shore. He weaves and dives and finally stands up on the water for a brief but exuberant dance. He flashes his brilliant white throat. Surely this is a ritual mating dance. Alas, there are only the usual cormorants and ducks out tonight. What is it about the reedy, mournful cry of a loon that brings tears to my eyes? It is such a sad aria. And now, when the tide is high and a soft rain is falling, the call of this rare visitor fills me with a quiet, reverent pleasure.

People seem to love to gather here for the pageantry of the Mystic River Drawbridge, including the summer Reggae Marathon and boat parades of all sorts including one for Santa. When my life is over, I hope someone will scatter my ashes here and sing the spiritual “Shall We Gather at the River?” Preferably on an outgoing tide!