To Begin Again

Just the other day I drove up Millcreek Canyon, just outisde Salt Lake City. It’s one of my favorite places in the world. A narrow, quiet canyon lined with oaks in its lower sections, and spruce, fir, and aspen higher up. It was early December, and the air was dry and frigid; the snow refused to clump in my fists. Looking for ways to connect with the place, to say hello, I thought to myself, “I should stick my feet in the creek.”

I grabbed a towel from the car, and sat at creek’s edge to remove my shoes and socks. As my first bare foot touched the snow, I almost changed my mind. It. Was. Cold. Slippery, too. I bent my knees to steady myself. The second I put my feet in, up to about my ankles, my mind could think of nothing else. I counted slowly to 60; a silly game I made up on the spot, trying to make sure I stayed in for one minute.

I managed to dry my numb feet off quickly and keep my socks and shoes dry. It wasn’t until my feet were back in my boots that the thought came to me: we turn to water when we want to begin again. The pattern is all around us, from the sacred to the mundane. For Christians, baptism is an essential tradition. For teenagers, a morning shower is just about as urgent. Water is there for us when we need anything from a wholesale second lease on life to a quick reset before we head to school. She cares for us this way, if we reach out. The creek whispered it to my feet.