Beauty is Still Here

Dear Starlight,

Yesterday, I found myself at the open mouth of a gushing waterfall pouring itself into the river at a merciless speed. I sat atop gnarled tree roots at the edge of an eddy, knees held into my chest, holding a river rock until all the buzz I had carried with me was washed away. I sat listening to the loud and constant whooshing until everything became calm. The air was gray, cool, and heavy, like damp wool needing to be wrung out.

Walking to the waterfall, I felt emotion choked in my throat but pushing out the corners of my eyes. The emotion was gurgling from somewhere too deep inside to be able to tell you from where, but it had already flooded my mind. I had no sense—in the sense of ideas—of what I was feeling, meaning the why. I only knew I felt I needed to go to the waterfall.

As I sat there with the stone in my hand, I recognized that the last time I sat in the spot, I had stones in my hand, and it was precisely the last full moon day the month prior. Then, I had brought a handful of blue stones to wash in the rushing water to hold, to help me feel safe and sound. I held them under the freezing water and marveled at the ice-capped roots and magical shapes and caves the waterfall had made on its way to the river then.

Is this place marked on my map, a full moon homing?

Eventually, I felt ready to leave and walked back towards my car through the woods, noticing that my throat was open, my breathing was slow. I felt lighter, as if that heavy, wet gray feeling hanging over me had wrung itself out—maybe even wrung me out.

Just before stepping over the threshold from woods to the gravel road, I noticed the floor covered in bouquets of snowdrops. The generosity of nature's beauty and promise of a warmer season, hope gifted at my toes.

All flourishing is mutual, I think—a line from a small book (The Serviceberry) on reciprocity by Robin Wall Kimmerer, which I’ve been reading in the bath.

Earlier this week, sitting at the river before dawn, I watched the moon set over the mountains. I watched my beaver friend swim his commute to his daily grind. I found a Bard owl feather at my foot. I collected beautiful water-worn sticks. I heard the symphony of birds. I noticed how much I love being here.

When I return to town, I ask people, “How are you?” and everyone tells me the same thing; they repeat the reasons why we should feel bad because of all the horrible things the elected government is doing and threatening to do. “Oh, yes, I agree, it is all horrible,” I say.

All suffering is mutual, I think.

My mother-in-law's feet are swelling and blistering with a disease she does not deserve. She is living and dying with cancer. Pain is here. My husband feels it too. I feel it. We feel it.

And her table is decorated with freshly picked flowers. Beauty is still afoot.