5.30.22

I am trying to walk out beyond the knowing, through the clear marshes of sadness, fury, and inheritance, to the very edge of things, where I must be brave. I want to be very specific here, without betraying myself. 

Today I want to tell you about the color of rocks and streams and rivers and sunlight. We drove out of the city to a watering hole right next to a small waterfall. I was the last to get into the water and when I did, ____ and ___ reached out their hands to me and I let myself reach back. I let myself be held in that small way, just for a few seconds, and then I let go as I always do. The water so cold I couldn't breathe. Eventually everybody climbed out except for me and I slowly acclimated to the temperature. The waterfall was so loud I couldn't hear anything beyond it; the crashing of it was the closest to true conversation I had come to in months. I put my head underwater to hear it better and in that motion a small weight lifted from my heart. I stayed in the water like that, listening, until the fear of what could be underneath its surface (what I could not see, what I could never see) caught up to me. 

When the fear could not be ignored, I climbed out of the water and onto the river bank. Immediately, I realized how deeply I had missed the true conversation of water, rock, and sediment. I wanted to return to its loud silence. The sun crept out and slowly illuminated the rocks under the water. And here was what I had meant to tell you: the colors of the soil and rock here are yellow, brown, and orange. The reflection of light on water was golden. What I mean to tell you is what we both already know: this is not the Pacific coast where the water is somehow emerald. What I mean to tell you is: I do think of home often. I think of its rock, soil, moss, and lichen. I think of every river, speaking to itself, headed in the same direction.