On returning

water, spring, and other steady cycles

When I see spring approaching on the horizon, I feel the way I’m supposed to feel in late December when preparing for the New Year. I’m filled with determination, dreams of reinventing myself, and the urge to wipe my slate clean and start all over; whereas on New Year’s Eve, I’m tired, cold, and exhausted from the holidays.

As a full-time resident of the Northern hemisphere, I am counting down the days to the vernal equinox, the day the sun shines directly on the equator, heading north as a promise of brighter and warmer days ahead for our half of the globe.

I can feel spring’s imminent arrival on my skin, through my hair, and in my bones. The weather has gotten warmer and suddenly I can feel my seasonal depression melting away like snow beneath the sun.

Spring feels like a season of returning; each March I feel like I’ve spent the last orbit around the sun chasing myself and I’ve finally come back to her.

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Almost all of my writing hinges on hope; I just can’t help it. Because of this, people tend to view me as optimistic, positive, and happy-go-lucky. While I do think I am that way sometimes, I find that when this persona is reflected back to me, I don’t recognize who I see in the mirror.

I actually think that my constant urge to write about hope is not born from someone who has reached the top of the staircase, enlightened and enriched with a new perspective, but from a desperate need to motivate myself to keep taking steps. If you’re not lost, you don’t need directions, and I sure need some directions.

Hope is something I always return to, or maybe it always returns to me. In that sense, hope is not necessarily a fixed constant, but something you can rely on to come back when it’s ready.

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the creek in question + bird

My favorite walking trail in my city follows a creek, blazing its way through neighborhoods, busy streets, and calm parks.

I’ve been known to read while I walk the trail, relying on my peripheral vision and hearing to not trip or get tackled by a cyclist. When I don’t read, I oftentimes bring my headphones and listen to music, an audiobook, or a podcast. But lately, I feel like I can’t escape the noise. My long walks get to serve as respite from reality and yet I tightly pack them with entertainment as if afraid to let my mind wander, lest my thoughts turn sour.

So I went for my walk along the banks of the creek with nothing to distract me. I heard birds singing and children playing and cars zooming down the streets. I saw wildflowers blooming haphazardly, the once yellowed grass brightening with green, and the waters of the creek dancing across the rocks.

It hadn’t rained in a while, so the waters of the creek were shallow and slow. But still, I could see tiny rapids forming, pushing their way to somewhere, and from somewhere.

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As kids, most of us learn about the water cycle, how all the water on earth moves from the ground to the sky, and back again. I started thinking about the creek, how when I first walked along its waters a year ago, it was a different creek. Sure, it was the same hole in the ground, but all the water was different. It moves away and gets evaporated and finds itself somewhere new, making each visit to the creek something singular and fresh.

But on the other hand, the water cycle tells us that there is only so much water. New water isn’t being created when it rains, it’s only being recycled, getting purified by the sky only to get dirtied by the earth when it falls back down.

In that sense, every visit to any body of water is the same water it’s always been. You and I could be across the world from each other, swapping H2O between us and sharing the same rain that historical legends once felt falling upon their faces.

In this way, water is new and old all at once. You can never swim in the same river twice, or perhaps all rivers are the same river.

The seasons are the same way. Each spring feels new and fresh; you are a year older with cold hands aching for sunshine. But spring will never be unexpected, it arrives at the same time every year. Spring always returns.

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As much time as we all spend with our faces stuck to a screen, I think we often forget that we are natural beings. We are Earthlings, as connected to this planet as the trees, the water, the seasons.

Spring is relief to my natural body. I no longer shiver, my body gathered to itself for warmth; I no longer find myself in bed in the late afternoon because the sun said she was sleepy. My eyes open wider without effort. My skin is no longer afraid of exposure.

I think of myself as a drop of water; one day in the creek, one day in the sky, one day in parking lot puddles. Every time I ascend into the sky, I know I will fall back down. But every time I fall back down, I know the clouds are waiting for my return.

This is part of the reason I have hope: I know I will always return. I will have winters again, the kind that numb your fingers and freeze your streets, but spring will always come again. Always.

Sincerely,

Caroline Cherry