Watch the moss-coated stones–they can be slippery. The water seeps into the cracks as it makes its way down into the creek–the waterfalls flowing, cascading white, like sheets being shook over the natural stairs. Everything is made by nature here–weathered by time–and, yet, so much stays the same: the spot where you can dive off the boulder and not break your neck; the large branch that leans precariously over the water, yet to break; the winding steep path down the woods (the roots of the trees like reptilian feet) that leads you to this peaceful place; the blue heron that sits upstream on the falls, staring at you, annoyed by your presence. “Why are you here?” he seems to ask. The question I’ve been asking myself for so long–with only the response, “Who knows?” But, here, in my favorite place, it all flows clear like the pristine water from the mountain snows: I am here to listen, to learn–to understand that I’m a mere ripple in the eternal flow.