Member-only story
How I Became Friends With a Rock in a Stream
The cool fall air swirled around my body and kissed my neck. It was that low-humidity kind of cool that comforts your skin, but doesn’t chill your bones.
Fall in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania is renowned to be one of the best locations to witness the beauty of autumn. The trees parade their waves of yellow-red friendly leaf armies back and forth gracefully above their cool and sturdy trunks.
Anyone with the mind of an artist clamors to capture the essence of this display by paint or film. They know they never quite will, but it's too beautiful not to try.
Even if they can capture a hint of it, their art will hold that beauty enough that those who view it will get a small shot of awe that nature can be so beautiful.
I was 3 or 4 years old and I reached up to grab my dad’s strong and gentle hand. He had a red flannel shirt and tan work-khaki pants and his brown leather belt. I wanted to be him.
We walked through the woods by my house to a little stream. We’d been there before but we walked a little further this time to a place we’d never been.
My dad was always showing me more, taking me further, cultivating my wonder.
