Searching the water

I grab onto the weathered branch of the tree trunk rising up from the water and haul myself into the space where three branches meet. Out here on the edge of the creek, it has long shed its leaves and things, replaced by flaky algae, a dry yet sturdy sentinel to the days.

It's hot today, Florida summer, 90-degree hot, but a breeze blows off the dark water and through wild hair. I sit there in the small space, knees drawn up to chin like a limber monkey, and throw my eyes across the water.

Fish ripple. A heron hesistantly wades. The current tugs inland.

I close my eyes and, for the first time in a long time, clear my mind. There is only sound. Water. Wind. Bird calls. A lion at my back.

There are certain things that a woman knows instinctively in quiet, stolen moments. That the world is so much bigger than her own, that love takes many forms, that peace can come even amid war, that everything will be OK. A woman should always trust her instincts.

Mine tell me to Be Still. To live freely. To accept what is mine. To write. To close my eyes and find the moments of sound.

Sometimes there is chaos in too much thought. And there is peace in a different kind of immersion. Find your space, search the water. Listen.