Babbling Brook

As writers, we mold characters from the clay of our imaginations, composing plots out of images in our minds. This morning I paused to listen for new words.

Words I could use to describe myself.

A person’s life is this crazy amalgamation of experiences. Everyone’s perspective is their own. Do I listen to others to lift me up? Or bring me down?

Like a river flowing and strong, I splash along the banks, adjusting to new surroundings. Do I trust my gut? What is my gut, and how did it get there?

I’ve been looking for words to tell my story: that I am this river, eroding rocks, making no apologies. But a river was once a babbling brook. Quieter. Made of rainwater. Gentle. Trickling. New.

The birds drank from it. The plants grew from it. Insects landed on its surface.

Then that brook turned into a stream. The deer sipped from it. The frogs jumped through it. Moss swayed in its clear water.

Follow along as I’ve changed in size. Follow along the winding tributary,

witnessing the boundaries I’ve since made. I am still that stream. I am still that babbling brook. But from the mouth of the ocean you can trace my origin.

I hydrate the land. I harness the current. I pull under that which doesn’t belong. This river gives life, where fish swim, pebbles skip and boats can float by.

I am not what was done to me. Nor what I have done.

I tried to find the words this morning to describe how I feel.

But the words I found were how it feels

to be me.