Respite

Weather.com predicted temperatures in the high-90s today. With the air conditioner running non-stop, I spent the majority of the day trying to reign in words so as to accurately depict the last couple months of Shenandoah Valley Track Club life. Amongst the text, I downloaded photos and tried to find engaging captions. As I copied, pasted and maneuvered boxes of content using PowerPoint, none of which wanted to evolve into anything resembling the newsletter I so envisioned in my head, I grew more and more frustrated.

"Once begun is half done," my gram used to say. And with this parable locked onto my brain, at 9 a.m. this a.m., I had willed myself to start. Past experience, I had thought, demonstrated that Gram was right. And though not in the mood to tackle the project, I figured I'd get into the thing once I got started. But after doggedly pursuing the project nonstop until 2:30 p.m., I decided Gram's parable was not going to work its magic today.

I tried a nap. Then, in response to a "help me" e-mail, a friend said she would take pics of Saturday's race, The Wounded 5K. Part of today's problem was a lack of material; earlier pleadings for news had netted little. I decided my friend's e-mail was my cue to give up on the project till next week, when another opportunity should present itself.

And so I took my frustrated, hot self on a respite I have promised myself often--but never fulfilled. I headed up the road to Heritage Park, hunter green folding canvas chair in a bag slung over my shoulder. Another small bag, slung over that same shoulder, held "If You Want to Walk on the Water, You Have to Get Out of the Boat" by John Ortlund, my Camelbak water bottle, and cell phone.

There was very little foot traffic on the paved 1/4 mile path--a race walker and a runner. I hurried creek side, then slowed as I took up the pursuit for a quiet spot. Near the bridge, I spied a large tree on the creek's edge. There the bank drops a foot or two and then spreads another six feet to the water's edge. There, a slightly hollowed out sandy spot formed the perfect spot for my folding chair. As I sat, my feet rested on a nature-made footstool formed by the rim of the hollow.

The scent of fishy river air merged with the scent of freshly mowed grass every time the air stirred. Not enough breeze to rustle my arm hairs and chill me, just enough to caress, comfort and calm. Down toward my right, a shimmer formed where cool water evaporated into the day's heat. And across from me, a bank of trees reflected on the water. In the center of that mosaic of green swirls, a gnarled tree trunk snaked its way to the top of the canopy. On my left, high water, caused by the spring's over abundant rains, bubbled and gurgled as it raced across stones and boulders on the creek floor.

I read the last three chapters of Ortlund's book, rested my head on the back of my chair, soaked up the air, basked in the serenity--and wished I had brought another book.