You have to follow a path and at first it’s wide and easy to follow but then it’s like Robert Frost. On the trail less traveled the leaves brush against your skin and clothes. It gets narrower and soon you’re at a darker space, deep under the trees, and it smells like earth. A small stream is running through and a big, big maple hangs over.
This is a good area to stop and it seems a bit like childhood. It’s a place to build a bridge to Teribithia; of pretend and rope swings; of discovery. If you listen, though, you can hear the river calling so you jump across the stream and keep going, leaving this place behind. The path is obscured with branches and dense like a jungle but it gets brighter ahead and soon you emerge at the river.
You stand at a bend and it’s wide and slow, but this is mostly a river that moves. She climbs and splashes down boulders and eddies around logs and has all these different voices – the soft and slow, the crash and the roar, the trickle, the shush and chuckle. She only sounds like one voice until you listen, then you hear her full chorus. You find a log where you can sit and let the sounds wash over you. You can watch the languid place in the river where sometimes deer cross and eagles or osprey soar above. Sometimes there’s a heron, duck or the ki ki ki ki of a kingfisher. All summer long, the swallows are daring and dashing.
The river’s chorus may be loud but it’s a quiet place. A place for watching. A place that washes you empty so you can feel peace inside. It’s a good place rest as you throw sticks or skip rocks. A place to dip in toes and splash. On a hot summer day you may slip off your clothes and slide into water, clear and cool. You may share this place with your dog friend and watch as he chase the sticks. He will swim beside you, but also understand, this is place of calm.
After absorbing her soothing, you step away from lady river. There’s still more trail to follow. It’s narrow, and is almost more a memory of a journey, then a real path. It moves through trees along side the river. Even though it’s a secret sort of trail, the leaves no longer brush against you. Now you voyage between Douglas fir and cedar, giant trees with rough brown bark. They are so big you lose sense of their size and they become part of the sky. The air turns green as it’s filtered through their branches high above. This is an even quieter place than beside the river. Moss makes your footsteps whisper and the birds sing high above their voices distant in that green filtered sunlight. The river murmurs, barely audible, reassuring you she’s still there.
The forest isn’t a place for sitting. This is a place of Mystery and you are a mere guest in the ageless cycle of life. Here you can believe in elves, ents and hobbits. Here you feel young and you wonder what lies ahead. This place feels like yours, even though you know it doesn’t belong to you. You climbs steeply up and suddenly the air is wet and you tingle with anticipation. Wet and breezy and the river’s voice becomes demanding again and you push breathlessly forward.
It is Mystery that pulls you into the light. The air glistens with moisture, rainbow glow, and the river’s crashing has become a symphony. Every time you come here, you want to touch the waterfall. Maybe that’s greediness, a desire for the power that pours forth. Her roar is so loud it’s not just noise but vibrations that thrum inside your body. The spray immerses you. No matter how many times you try to touch the waterfall the wind and waves push you back. It’s doesn’t matter that you can’t touch, because she has already reached out and wrapped you in her wet embrace.
The Different Drummer 