“You need to at least dip one toe into the water.” This is what my grandma used to say as we approached the cold and often numbing waters of the Pacific. She felt that it didn’t count if you didn’t put at least one toe in. I cherish that idea as I dip my toe into the deep blue waters of the Pacific.
I often write about water. It has been a big part of my life….
A young little blonde girl of only eight with hair flowing down her back with lime green summery shorts and a Minnie Mouse short sleeved yellow t-shirt runs as fast as she can before everyone awakes to start the day in the cabin in the deep Olympic National Forest on Dewatto Bay. Bacon and coffee will soon fill the cabin and permeate the air and footsteps will be stomping hard on the ancient oak floors and the fire will crackle as it is stoked to take the chill off from the morning.
Outside the air is crisp and dew has bestowed upon the green grass or what is left of it from the hot summer sun. Behind the cabin is where the little girl is called to. There is a large ancient well at the crest of the woods. The well serves the cabin of summer visitors. Around the well is what interests the child, she looks around and breathes in the freshness of the massive growth of wild mint that has taken a home. The leaves are damp as she snips off a peace and rubs it gently to release the oils into her palm. This is her routine, her ritual upon entering her sanctuary.
The trail head is noticeable and marked seemingly just for the little girl. Naturally made by a large overgrowth in the shape of a large arch, she walks through the magical place. She enters her home barefoot and feels the ground embracing her, the trees speak to her. The sounds of the insects, birds and ever flowing water lovingly call out her name.
As the young one journey’s into the deeper dark woods a branch kisses her arm with the dew from the morn. She feels the ferns with her hands, gliding them across as she runs, running faster through the woods feeling the floor of the forest against her feet.
Nature has called upon her and she has answered. A bridge entirely made from a fallen lost tree who no longer had life is serving a purpose for her now. The moss has made a home on this fallen log. She crosses the naturally made bridge thinking of the life of the tree. She approaches her end.
There the wonder, the beauty that was calling her out of her warm sleeping bag in the early morning hours. The small opening of a crystal clear bubbling stream. She dips her first toe in and now the second as a chill crawls up her legs. Both her feet are now in the chilled water. She closes her eyes and breathes in the sounds of the trickle, the dampness of the deep canopy that called her. She embraced and fell in love with the water at this very moment.
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