Two years ago during a sporadic and drifting drive westward, I parked in the empty lot in front of the modest signpost and shuffled down the damp trail to this waterfall. The fresh chilled air and dim morning light felt eerie, but refreshingly different from the city, and different was what I wanted. Pacific Northwestern winters can at once be so gray and so lush, and that day was no exception. It was an ordinary day, indeed.
The sound of rushing water amplified as I approached, probing my nascent caffeine headache. Watching the falls, I thought perhaps I could conjure a breakthrough; draw inspiration from holy nature to ameliorate my restive mind. As expected, that didn’t happen. Chasing waterfalls is no substitute for emotional labor. No—I needed to keep moving. I needed to figure out how to tame the inexorable current of thoughts that flooded my silent day. And I needed coffee. I took a photograph, and walked back to the car.