Spring

Back in February, the Willamette River was so low you could walk all the way to the boat dock on the beach instead of on the paved path above.  As I strolled along, I found a perfect little rock, pure black, inexplicably smooth, shaped like a teardrop. That's the first day I truly knew in my heart that I would leave OPB.

I carried the rock with me as I spent two weeks tromping around the wet, wintry countryside trying to reconcile my head with my heart.  I carried it as I said goodbye to my longtime friends and colleagues.  And I carried it as I muddled through these unsettled in-between days.

It's been an uncommonly sad time, getting used to the idea of being away from the familiar places and people I've grown to love, in exchange for a fresh opportunity. Yet across these contemplative weeks of transition, I watched the dark of winter reluctantly turn into the enchantment of spring, and have been reminded of the good that can come from change.

How the thin slivers of buds in the maple trees resemble thousands of tiny fireflies lighting up the dark woods. How the stark moss that defined the shape of the forest fades against the freshness of new growth. And how the snowmelt, silent, pure and frozen only moments before, now bounds exuberantly over the rocks while giant bumblebees feed from the blooms of the salmonberry along the shore.

Determined to experience spring in the wild once more before embarking on my new work, I packed up my brand new hiking shoes and headed into the gorge. The wildflowers were charming.  The weather, not so much. High on the open face of the ridge just below Angel's Rest, where the ancient timber burned in the big fire of 1991, a dark cloud passed through and created a surprisingly wet rainstorm. 

But a drippy jacket was a small price to pay for the scramble up the final set of rocks and a seat on a boulder at the top.  Because there, you find clarity from being above it all, inspiration from the massive strength of the river below, and tranquility from the hawk who rides the wind for minutes on end without once beating its wings.

As I sat and looked out, I finally felt that it was time to leave the sadness behind.  On a whim, I took my perfect little traveling rock out of my backpack, leaned out over the edge of the cliff, and placed it in a mossy little bowl carved out by the wind and rain.

I'd like to imagine that someone will come along who also wants to feel the delight of peering over the edge.  And I hope they'll wonder how that magical little rock got there, and that they'll reach out and let it accompany them for a time.

Even though I'll never know what happens, I do know that tomorrow is a new day.