R O C K

We still require much practice before we’re polished, my intuition and I. Though we dance together, our rhythm is often out of sync; I step on her toes, and she gently moves back to position.

My actions were especially gentle, as a thought passed through my mind and almost brought me tears. Rather than cry, my hands began a deep tissue massage, even though my typical protocol is gentle touch followed by observation from several feet away. It went that way for twenty minutes, and I never moved those several feet away.

There were no signs, no indications to proceed differently, yet according to intuition, there were.

A gurgling child struggling to breathe is an orchestral flight of sorrow in perfect harmony with the conductor’s baton. They are in seconds transformed from human to ant riding a leaf downstream towards a waterfall.

We are tempted to scream, but we are the river, and the only way to slow the leaf is to slow the breath. Though we save the leaf, the sorrow never leaves the vein, because we are not the only river they’ve come to know, nor are we the water that must continue to fall.

She was in my mirror, and I thanked her for the dance. We are getting better.

Later, the child thanked me, and I smiled. Not because of his gratitude, but because although I am the river, the river is not me. It simply transforms me into an indispensable rock at the appointed times.