I woke on a mountain in Tennessee, drifting in the Little Doe River with leaves in my hair, barefoot and wearing a blue cotton dress. The cool water ran around me, down over the rocks, and away, away. It woke me as it ran, whispering secrets to itself in a strange language whose patterns I could understand only as they echoed from my ears to my soul, the resonance forming perceptions I put my simple words to.
The river whispered the secret of its origin. Where did it come from? From the rain. Feeding all living things, the rain gathered invisibly in the forest through leaves and over stones to become the river, watering its banks and flowing away gracefully. The water also told me of old tree sanctuaries and treasure buried in caves. Long unexplored these mysteries were, the river told me, and it led me into the forest lush with rain.
Away from the river I flew wild through the leaves, running to my heart’s content, skin turning the color of the forest floor. I slid down a bank where green laurel grew thick and the dark, wet stone loomed overhead. The forest stood thriving and ancient around me. And when I realized my youth, I began to doubt my place in the rain-watered forest. Did it accept me? I could not say. As I doubted, I set off, away from my forest and toward any distant horizon.
*
Wandering on a desert mountain, a thorny acacia tree tore at my face and arms. The trees stood crippled and stunted in sandy dry earth. I sat on the rocks; the ants were so thirsty they flocked to the moisture left by my handprints. There had been no rain; the earth would not receive it. Going, the rain had left a silent, muddy river behind. Rising from the water’s murky surface, eyes of predators stared at me. In place of the subtle language of the water leading me, I heard arid whispers from the heat telling me of dried bones it had left in the sand.
The only thing left alive in this place was me, and if I did not leave, I would die for lack of rain; my bones would be the ones in the sand. I turned my back to the desert and my face toward the rain and the river.
*
I walked slowly through the deep forest along the banks of the Little Doe River, listening to the rush of water. How had I doubted I belonged here? The fierce stone was not unwelcoming: it reflected my own brooding nature. The huge trees weren’t standoffish, but stately and rooted in the same way I should have been. I belonged here, as part of it all, watered by the rain.
My toes sank into the wet earth beside the river, and as I took root in the forest, once again I heard the water’s language. Once again I could understand it telling of the beauty around me and turned to go explore its forest secrets: crimson trillium, pools rich in fools’ gold, black caves winding deep under earth, and strange lights dancing among the trees.
Others have been more drought-resistant; others do not need the rain. But me? I need water to survive. Here I will stay, my roots deep in heavy mountain stone, until the day when I lie back down in the Little Doe River and listen as it whispers me to sleep.