The Flow of Life

Veronica Barrowcliff

“… Repeated

       evidence has proved that it can live

       on what can not revive

              its youth. The sea grows old in it.”

~ Marianne Moore, “The Fish”

My feet stomp the ground harder than I imagined they would, sound at uneven intervals bouncing back from the path. Sometimes, I can never hear my own footfalls, like they’re a stilled creek, immobile until some element helps renew its movement with distinguishable noise. From the unexpected heat of the day bearing down on my skin, I beg for some water to refresh my willpower on this trail. Any of the water that’s around me: the lake reservoir to my left, or the streaming creeks scattered in barely identifiable clearings on either side of the trail, streams below a wooden foot bridge, are all too inviting for the negative exclamations from my family, and the declined slope of the banks that I just might tumble down to try to reach these refreshments. I finish my trudge up the harsh, tarred asphalt hill, pebbles grating underneath my feet, where I’m met with the finale of the journey. My pounding feet can never keep time with the trickling from the beautiful waterfall that I can’t help rushing to. My footsteps stamp against the dirt, marking my pathway and embedding my soles into the sand.

My foot left its indent space as I followed my sister’s stride up the rocky terrain.

The massive stones that had somehow toppled over this hillside, embedded in this cavity, managed to contain the trickles of a waterfall. Even when the flow is tiny, this water can still make its way around the overwhelming abundance of the steady boulders.

We passed the pool that dispersed at the base of the waterfall – which had settled right where we stood from a natural alcove off the trail.

The pool was almost never as stagnant as the smaller streams or creeks we’d passed minutes before.

Just like all the stilled waters, something pushed it to move once again, rippling through their own life cycles.

“There’s not much up there…” Our grandma tried to persuade us.

We knew she was right. There was no excitement to expect at the waterfall’s peak. Housing or uneventful scenery at best.

That’s why we never passed the waterfall’s alluring pathway.

But that pool was little and could only occupy our attention for so long. If it settled for too long, we’d be done with its entertainment. Sometimes all we need is something to get splashed in our way for our currents to keep flowing.

We pushed on.

Further up, away from the dripping waterfall’s decline below us.

We continued our ascent.

Grandma was right. It wasn’t continuing natural beauty. But it was just as big – hell, if not bigger – than the lake we were walking around.

With this reservoir ending in the wall of a dam, my sister and I are stuck.

Reality.

Adulthood.

As big as the ocean – maybe bigger…

My sister and I were now damn near fish out of water.

I followed my sister’s damp footprints aligning with the terrain of the waterfall. The sand I returned to has been compacted by deep seeping water, dried and hardened from weathering. Any inch of water has been in contact with the once soft ground at one point, trickling into cracks in the asphalt, divots within the soil. The newly muddied landscape is the perfect place to do either one of two things.

Slip: slip up and accept a failure. Revel in the idea of your mistake. Believing there’s no such thing as a second chance to help you remove your foot from the ground now collapsing in a mess of debris on your ankle. “… what can not revive / its youth.” claims Marianne Moore. What’s done is done; the past is in the past. No do-overs, second chances.

“… Repeated / evidence has proved that it can live…” Entrust yourself with a consistent, determined, or dedicated ideology. Trust that you’re confirming your beliefs; you’re making the right decision. Your reliability within yourself can prove that what you’d been painstakingly searching for, the hard work, has been worthwhile, paying off in just as dedicated a reward as the passion you persisted with to begin.

“You’ve been doing so well!”

Which allows you the second alternative.

“Keep going”…

Leave your impression. Well beyond an evaporating footprint. The mark that is indefinitely yours.

269 acres from my college campus was nothing compared to the 315 acres of this regional park.

My sister and I, our friends, future generations. Tiny little droplets who make an intense effort to maintain our defined shapes as we fall against the intimidating faces of the rocks throughout society.

Nothing to compare to the frightening depths and curiosities of a body well beyond this comforting space from this lake. A larger-than-life ocean of humanity.

With ponds, lakes, rivers, seas, and oceans being as large and even lasting longer than human lives, we still pale in comparison to the vast array of life that each of these bodies of water may contain.

“You’ve come a long way.” my mother and grandmother say of both sisters.

Taking notice of my treading the stretch of a lake that connects January to April, they both exclaim, “May 10th will be here before you know it.”

They themselves are unaware that it’s the dense April and May months that just might drown me before I reach my finale.

From something as small and unnoticeable as a leech, to snakes, crabs, and shark-infested waters, creatures of various dangers arise almost as quickly as generic human distractions.

I need to keep my head above water, fight the wave-pounding semester to reach my life-changing graduation.

My friends, as loving and encouraging as my family, also watch me bob like an ocean buoy to keep myself afloat amid the gurgling waters. Water that I will soon cannonball into to join them in the working world.

Although their message is just as identifiable as the rippling waters around me.

Keep Flowing.