Still.. − 1 August, 1986

i remember woods lake and crossing that little hidden creek with my father, to a rock outcropping on the other side.. a flat shelf of a rock that served as an island of sorts between two branches of the stream that fed into the lake. the creek was swift, only about knee deep, and crystal clear. Daddy would find footing somewhere in the middle, bracing his legs like a saw horse, and reach his hand out to me, guiding me safely onto some boulder or raised surface. he'd hold me steady there until he knew i was secure, and he'd kinda leap out to that shelf from the middle of the stream. it took him all of two seconds. one giant leap. and here i was in the middle, still trying to hold my own on a moss covered something, but there was always his hand again, reaching out for mine. and no matter how long i hesitated or stared fearfully to the bottom of the creek, he'd hold my hand as tight as he could until i felt comfortable enough to wade myself through. once on the other side we'd explore the hilly landscape, then find that big rock again and skip rocks across the water.

have you ever seen water like that? pure snow runoff from the mountains about 5 miles away. perfectly clear and deadly quick. sometimes instead of skipping rocks, i'd simply gather them up and drop them, one by one into the swift water. I used to love the way they were magnified underneath like it was all one big convex lens.. the way the sunlight would play on the surface of the water, and the reflections of it at the bottom.. I loved watching the rock swirl in a ballet, a barage of current from all angles as it drifted down. back and forth like a swing if it had any weight to it at all.. and if it was light enough the current would carry it a little ways before it would hit the bottom and send silt up in a tiny mushroom cloud. It was mesmerizing. Sometimes I'd lose myself in the bottom of that creek, watching the sun or the rocks or my own reflection become distorted as the water rushed and rushed downstream, a hostage of gravity. Sometimes I'd become so engrossed that when i finally looked up again, dad had wandered off, either finding firewood or more rocks for skipping or simply doing some other camping chore. and i would panic. the fear running through me from the core of my stomach to the tips of my fingers and toes and I'd strain to see the blue nylon of our tent just to make sure that I wasn't somehow absorbed by the wilderness and desperately lost. without daddy, i couldn't get back across that creek.. without daddy, i'd be stuck out on that rock alone. inevitably, here he'd come again around some corner or out from behind some tree, with a handful of rocks or an armful of firewood or pine cones or pine needles for kindling.. and my world settled to the bottom again.. became sane.

this time,he's gone around the bend and out of sight.. and he's out so far now that he cant come back. and that panic and that fear that spreads out from the heart to the extremities, that old sinking feeling of danger that we all inherit at birth, the feeling of wrongness surrounds everything. I am constantly searching every face and every corner. every shadow and every ray of light for him. and though i know that he wont return, there is still part of me that thinks he is just behind that tree, that he is minutes away from stepping back out from nowhere, saying "what's wrong kiddo?" when he sees the panic in my eyes.

for three years, i have been nothing but one of those stones, cast thoughtlessly into a raging mess. and I am the one caught in that current, the darkness magnified by its depths.

for three years, I have been nothing but the little girl i once was, stuck out on that rock alone, afraid to cross the creek without my father.