Over the precipice

I wanted to go to my park today but neither my body nor the weather were cooperating.  Instead I review a montage of pictures from a few weeks ago when the sky was blue and the creek was lush from a month of nearly daily downpours.  I watch again a video I took of the waterfall I call Big Sister.  My headphones augment the water's song:  I close my eyes and turn up the volume on my phone.  I don't need to see her right now, its enough to hear her.  My mind already knows well the sight and I conjure it easily from years of memories.  Water spills over the jagged ledge, a culmination of billions upon billions of raindrops, and they coalesce into a living work of art, a living symphonic tone poem.

I have learned from this park that home is not a dwelling, a person, or a place, but rather a state of mind and spirit.  Fall Run Park and I have both changed in the past three and a half months.  We've benefited from our respective brokenness.  My near brush with death just two short months ago has quieted the maelstrom of activity and rushing that was my life.  I've learned the wholeness that comes with quiet and introspection.  I don't need achievement to be a force of nature. 

A few years ago it seemed that Fall Run Park would never be repaired from the flooding at the start of this decade. While the park "reopened" in April of this year, for people like me who loved her well, she was never closed.  I never left her side, entering her sanctuary in spite of signs warning of danger and plastic tape barriers.  Now she is repaired, the new pedestrian bridges anchored, the well-worn paths brushed clean of debris.

In a way its ironic that this season has been so rainy.  In spite of the restoration, some of that which was new is already broken.  One of the bridges lost its railing in the wind and rains.  Saplings and branches were scattered about like unwanted toys.  A landslide has muddied the footpaths.  But the landslide has birthed a new waterfall in the canal left behind by the misplaced earth.  The new infant waterfall is only weeks old.  She is tentative and unsure, but she is holding.

Like a child walking behind their parents, I stand in the footprint of Fall Run Park, cradled in this depression made in the Earth.  I am held in an arch of surety and gratitude.  This has been a new season for each of us, a restoration of health and well-being. 

In the practice of keeping a blog, I've come to see Fall Run Park from a fresh perspective.  Since the restoration, we are getting reacquainted.  Being sick has made me different too and I wonder if I feel the same to the air around me.    This is no longer a destination but a relationship.  As cherished as this place is to me, I had never written about it, always letting my camera do the talking.  I think we will both have more to say to one another as time goes on.

Hello again, old friend.

Little things mean a lot

The weather is unseasonably warm today. It's December 2, 2018 and the sunshine and 63 degree temperature feels gorgeous on my skin. My modern sensibilities try to tell me I should feel guilty for enjoying the warm weather because it's likely a cause of global warming, but after two weeks of cold wet rain I am grateful for the respite.

The views here at Fall Run Park are still more lush than usual and the full creek and balmy breeze make me forget it isn't springtime. Even the smaller waterfalls are at their best and they want to show off today.

It's easy to forget about these little gems, the dozen or so small cascades, each less than two or three feet. The two headliners, Big & Little Sister, draw most of the attention. A third has joined their ranks due to a recent landslide and time will tell if she lingers on, becoming a permanent part of the family.

The sound of rushing water is to me one of my favorite comforts.  There is plenty to be heard right now, and the effect is immersive. The walk through Fall Run today is like being bathed in sound.

The baby waterfalls are preening for attention. I shop off the trail to stand close to one. She may not be as grand or tall but she is every bit as queenly in her beauty.  I soak in her spirit for several minutes as we commune together.

I say aloud to her: I see you. I see you.  I take a picture, which offers only a glimpse of this little sprite's charms. I press my palms together, bow my head and offer a parting of N'amaste. She is the Divine.