Go to the River

If you’re at the end of your rope, I understand. If you can’t find a way out, I understand. When the world backs you into a corner, I understand.

Go to the river.

Take off your shoes. Wade out onto the river rocks. Let them give your feet some of their solidity. Let the water cool your skin, let it pull heat from your feet and legs, so your body has to work to replace it.

Smell the musky river. Let the grass brush your legs, your hands. Trace the leaves, jagged and smooth. Beware the poison ivy, but the rest is OK to touch.

Sit on the sand.

Offer a quiet prayer for this place. Let its babbling lift away your own babbling. Leave your phone in the car.

Sit still. Let the river find where it hurts.