The Bridge

A year ago, my mother and I sat on a wooden bridge we'd built together that crossed over the creek by where my cabin would eventually be. It was the first, and the only thing we'd ever constructed like that in our lives. This was more than a simple bridge; this would be the dawning of a new life, and a new purpose to that life. I'd come back home. I attempted to turn the neglected land into a livable space. I was still staying in a tent at the time, and my uncle had just taken a giant tractor to the weeds that had taken over the hundred year old farmhouse property. Mama and I sat sat there exhausted, thirsty, and incredibly proud of our little bridge; we'd crafted it to be large enough to get a small lawn mower across so I'd be able to mow the yard my future cabin would sit on. We didn't know at the time that cabin would never make it across the creek. I'd eventually have to settle for having it placed on the side by the old house that had seen years of decay.

It was a dream to be back  after living in NYC for the past five years. The scent of fresh cut weeds mixed with the cooling effect of the rushing water as we sat there in silence, watching the wind blow through the trees and calming ourselves down. It hadn't been easy. The land here had suffered oversight for so long there were hidden vines that would pull you out from under your own feet, and rough cut treelings that impaled anyone who ventured across the field without proper safety shoes. Poison ivy was thick, and snakes ruled the lot. It took that entire year to cure the area in a way that allowed me to live somewhat comfortably, and I'm still working on it to this day.The little hollow is truly wild.

The bridge was a new beginning and the first place I had to actually sit down. I started with nothing; I either built furniture or refinished and restored old pieces, or I had to sit on rocks and the trunks of trees. It was hard, but it was refreshing compared to congested, crushing city life. I was much more attracted to exhaustion from simplistic building as opposed to mental strain and constant stress. And that bridge was a beautiful piece of work. The cabin went in, the weather changed. I watched as storm after storm threatened to annihilate our carefully crafted structure. I stayed glued to the weather reports that came in as the floods of 2018 took over the mountain; weather patterns that hadn't been seen since the seventies. My mother and I would be right out there in the middle of rainstorms, trying to chain our bridge to the trees while the wind slapped our wet hair to our faces, blinding us while we kept working despite everything.

I even learned the energy of the water as I'd wade up to my waist, moving with the current and figuring out how she would carve her way through the ground during those floods. And then one day, it happened.

I was jerked awake by a loud crack around 3:30 am. I grabbed a flashlight and went out onto the deck to see the water splashing right up against my home! There was nothing but a pure, black sky and an ocean of water. I shined the light out to see the weather had finally won. My yard had washed out on one side, taking the stability right out from under the bridge. Giant railroad ties, the biggest I'd ever seen, had washed down from a neighbor's property and was knocking against what was still chained to the trees. The water rose higher and eventually covered it all up. I saw my fence we'd built by that time, along with its grand gates, bowing in and creaking with some giant mass pushing against the other side. I panicked, for my truck stood not far from whatever was on that side of the gate, and it looked like it was rocking. So before my ride completely washed away, I impulsively jumped right down into the water and began swimming against the current to where the creek had disappeared under the wash. I carried the flashlight in my mouth while I clung to uprooted trees and what was left of the fence line in the dark. I had to save my truck...

That night was awful. I was worried sick my cabin would float away like a plastic monopoly piece. My fear brought me to my knees and I prayed as I listened to the crashing and howling outside once I had removed the logs pushing my vehicle towards the water. I was alone, stuck, and waiting for daylight and any break in the storm. Thank heaven my dog was on higher ground. She was confused, but she was in a better position than me that night, watching from the hilltop of the yard and in the safety of a very expensive and big dog pen. I sort of wished at that point that I could have been a dog.

It's been awhile since that happened, but that bridge has lain in its broken state ever since. I couldn't move or clear it without help. Today, help came. It was pulled out of the creek, and I'm finally able to put it all to rest while I clear up and restore the creek side. My mother and I watched its retirement together, with teary eyes and saddened hearts. But just as one chapter closes, another one begins. It's always been that way, especially here in the little hollow. This tearing away of the bridge marks the end of my first year back; the year that prepped me for a greater life. My spring creek is different; she's wider, and holds more of that precious, healing water. The storm turned up a lot of stones and revealed shimmering pieces of minerals & unknown particles in the sand. Uncle wants to pan for gold now; he's fairly certain it's in there. Mama wants me to put an easily removable bench by the water as I'm building my rock wall, and I think I'll do that. The strength of all those storms could not take away the beautiful, cool and crystal clear flow that eternally runs by my home. The moon shines down and picks up the shimmering lights of those strange, glowing minerals at night. It seems this place is energized in a stream of magic that completely separates me from the rest of the world. I'll never take its grace for granted.

I learned trust here. I learned confidence, patience, resilience, and I learned how to drive away fear of the unknown. I shared my space with friends and family, and we've sat on that bridge together for hours. We've shared stories on it, and we've shared beer. I've had unexplainable things happen while I sat there. I remember my mother walking down towards me with a piece of paper in her hand one day that turned out to be a miracle and would fund a dream of mine. Sitting on that bridge. The bridge that never washed away, even when it broke down and couldn't hold any longer. It was a tough and generous one, and it stayed with me. It taught me to be tough and generous, and to stay loyal. Tonight I can hear the change in my spring creek's music. She's softer now that the bridge isn't there to dam up the water, amplifying the echo. Her gushing has relaxed into a calmer song that sings across the rocks. The harvest moon is at its peak this Friday, September 13^th,   and the light is already reflecting the shiny gems in the water. The spell of the new year is cast. It's time to enjoy these new treasures, explore my new chapter, and move forward. I'll be building a fire in honor of it all this Friday as that moon hangs over my sacred hollow.