The Rock That Remains ( written for my Eco Chaplaincy class at HIU)
Being asked to choose just one encounter in nature where I felt the divine is nearly impossible. Even when I’ve lived in the most chaotic and densely populated cities in the world, I have always sought and found natural beauty. You could say it is my life’s quest.
There is a rock—a cliff, really—at the edge of Reservoir #6 in the town where I spent my childhood, and the town I have now returned to decades later. This cliff, buried in lichen and memories, doesn’t call attention to itself. No one jumps from it anymore. But I return to it again and again, drawn not only by its physical form but by the grounding presence it offers. The water below shifts and shimmers, reflecting the changing seasons, but the rock remains unmoved. Somehow it has become my chapel, my altar—and it seems, my mirror.
As a preteen, I followed my older brother up to this place with his friends. They always seemed to be having more fun than me, and mostly, they were kind enough to let me tag along. I watched them all leap with youthful ease from this ledge. Not one to admit my fear—especially of heights—I summoned my courage and made the run and leap of faith into the cold blue water, cheered on by the voices of my brother and his best friends. Back then, that cliff was a thrill—a dare—something to conquer. A place of adrenaline and the power of naive youth. A place where we broke the rules and loved every second of it.
Now, it has become a sanctuary—a still point in a world that is anything but still.
I’ve lived all over the world as an international teacher. I’ve sat in silent awe at some of the most spectacular and spiritual vistas this world has to offer. But this is the place that comes to mind when someone asks me about my home. Over the years, I’ve made a point of returning anytime I am in the region. I introduced my daughter to the trails my father once walked me on as a girl—the same trails I brought her Irish father to when he first came to meet my mother.
The reservoir itself has become more than a body of water. It is a receptacle of life—of memory, of tears, of healing. It holds the seasons, like it holds rain and snowmelt, and somehow, it holds me too. I have cried there for each of those I have lost—my dad, my mom, my daughter's father. And I feel their presence there still, as if the water remembers, as if the rock listens.
I go there now to chant, to breathe, to pause. To sit in the stillness. To watch and to wonder. I’m learning to quiet my mind and let my thoughts drift past like the ripples on the reservoir’s surface.
This place teaches me about time—how healing rarely comes all at once, how grief returns in waves, and how nature makes no demands for closure. When I’m there, I am every age I ever was and every age I will be. It is a portal of sorts. I mentioned all the places of beauty I’ve sought around the world. I’ve found a few portals of peace. But this rock—this quiet edge of water—was my first one. It is where I learned to find myself. Where I learned to sit in the stillness.
I would come here as a teen to escape the strife in my home. I’d run miles around its trails-training to achieve my dreams. I’d sit and watch the sunset and imagine what my life might become. And now I return. The rock listens when I chant, when I cry. Stalwart and steady. It reminds me who I am and what I am capable of. It gives without demanding. Like the reservoir, it holds what I bring to it.
As I read Brown this week, I’m struck by the way he intertwines personal story with ecological insight. My own story, too, is not separate from this place. This reservoir and this cliff are more than memory—they are collaborators in my formation, my point of origin story.
I am so grateful for this sacred space—for this rock that remains, and for the waters that continue to receive, reflect, and renew.
