Top of the rock

At the top of the rock I felt something shift, a change in some heart of me--because everyone has many hearts, surely--brave and kind and sad and scared and lovely and stubborn and joyful--and in some heart of me my breath whooshed out and everything felt still. A sort of swelling quiet.

The rock itself is pink granite, all of it, pink and black and shiny and covered with more life than you'd imagine. That rock was sustaining lovely swaths of succulents and wildflowers. The very top of the rock, right where we were standing, was dotted with vernal pools. And in some of those pools lived tiny frogs and tadpoles. The girls caught polliwogs in those vernal pools, right on top of a rock which just happens to be called Enchanted Rock. Searching for polliwogs in vernal pools at the top of Enchanted Rock should be a life list item. It's such a lovely sentence to type, much less experience.

While the girls searched for polliwogs and my husband plotted our next vista, I stood staring into the distance, turning ever-so-slightly now and then for a different view. There, straight in front of me, things were gray and heavy. Behind me, clear and vast. And I felt--I felt, I felt--that I understood what brings people to church every Sunday.

Here is the truth I labored over, both literally and figuratively, while my children scaled it instinctively: These views don't come without a climb.