The cliffs and waterfalls in this part of the country illustrate the word gorgeous. The gorge we walked through last weekend was beautiful to look at, the lush green mosses and vegetation brilliant against the grey rock and white churning water. But perhaps my favorite part of the park was the music.
I’ve always loved the sounds and moods of moving water.
When I was little, I would crawl into the bow of my father’s sailboat, wriggling my way amongst all the orange life jackets and the white canvas sailbags to find a comfortable spot to nap. With my head resting against the white painted wood, I’d fall asleep to the gurgle and murmur of water rushing against the hull.
Sometime we've traveled to the shore to camp in the sand dunes, so that at night we could listen to the steady and rhythmic crashing of the ocean waves.
I’ve gone underground with my students, descending into a cool dark cavern, to hear the dripping, carving song of an underground stream.
On humid days in August, when I am hiking, hot and tired and thirsty, it's wonderful to hear the splash and dance of a waterfall nearby, luring me into the spray. Always it feels great to let the cold water surge over my head, soaking me until my whole body tingles.
Last summer, when I spent two weeks away from my family, my friends, and my home, on a raft trip through the Grand Canyon, the Colorado River was a constant presence in my life, the rushing, restless sound of it moving even through my dreams as I slept on the bank of the river at night. I was not lonely at all on that trip because the river was always present.
Whether I am just lying on a bridge, thinking about life,
or staring into the gorge below,
or walking underneath a waterfall, to let the spray slap against my face,
the sound of water soothes me, wakes me -- pulls me into a conversation about all that I do not understand.