Senior Portfolio: Creative Nonfiction Piece
By: Sam Mariano
Climbing down the beaten path towards the sounds of crashing water and shifting leaves, my eyes make contact with my familiar stone and its familiar log. Just a few feet away is a large waterfall, propelling the rest of the river water forward. Although, always a mix of moisture and plant the pungency of the wildlife grows and fades with the heat of the day or with the shifting weather patterns. Discerning the smells I find pine, dirt, lake water, and wet stone to be the most prominent. The smell of moisture and plants pulls me back to my time as a child running around the park with my parents in search for any kind of critter. Almost as ghosts, my younger selves run before me leaving glimpses of memories as they trace through the forest trees. As a family, we would come for hours to skip stones, flip over random rocks with the hope of finding a living creature, fishing off the bridges, or just to peacefully walk the trails through the vast wilderness.
Looking around, I watch the sun’s reflection glitter on the moving water and the mist ascend into the sky before fading and falling back down. The mist is never enough to wet a person while sitting on my familiar stone and log, but if I venture closer-- which I normally do-- I will leave thoroughly damp. On the flowing river, a family of ducks is perched and sleeping on a rock that is untouched by the water. Time has left the nature of this place intact, but the presence of humans always leaves a mark. In the more recent years of coming to my sacred place, people have begun to discover the remote trail leaving behind their trash marking the beauty of nature with the fall of man. I have brought these people to the waterfall. As I come to stay at my sacred place the overgrown trail becomes more revealed to the human eye; humans are good at exploring. The beautiful wildlife strangled by careless human interaction, the plethora of water toxic to the touch, and the luscious air tapering my lungs. Although with some help nature has the ability to heal itself. So, I pick up the apparent pieces of trash, shining brightly against the shades of green and grey. The beer cans catch the sun and shoot rays of offbeat colors of blue and red into the scenery. Cigarette butts scatter the stone ground like odd mushrooms with bright yellow bases. My time as a lifeguard has conditioned me to touch things most people would stay away from; so, I grab them, stuffing it into a bag with the colorful “have a nice day” in my car as I leave knowing that there will just be more when I return. No matter the amount of trash I will never be swayed from visiting the only place my thoughts are clear and God’s presence is full.
Very few times have I gone down my path to actually find the visitors who may have left these remains. My stone and my log are always there every time I return, seemingly untouched by those sojourners exploring the land. I am accustomed to the presence of garbage in this place, and I always will try my best to keep it clean, but it never stops me from sharing this sanctuary with new people. With the same child-like excitement I race down the trail like the ghosts who have gone before me, waiting for my friend to catch up. My visitor is welcomed as I stand arms wide in an attempt to display this work of creation.
***
I often wonder how many sacred places I have left trashed as a result of my presence?
My time sitting on my rock has been accompanied by long conversations with God surrounded by the sounds of whistling winds and crashing water. Sometimes, always together through my mind's eye, we have walked through the trails following my childhood memories. In those moments, God normally listens with the occasional nudge in a certain direction. I have never heard the voice of God, but the Spirit moves in mysterious ways making knowledge comprehensible without speaking. As we sat on that rock, or as I picked up the trash from the latest human interactions I have contemplated that others-- like me-- are also picking up trash.
Although those remaining pieces of human evidence are not left by any visitor, but are left by me. Sacred places are not labeled, not marked, not identifiable except for the people to which they belong. As a human, I am good at exploring and making myself known to the world. My presence can be acknowledged, although, it may not be for the best reason because what I deem a place of insignificance can also be a location of sanctity. I have left trash in their sacred place. I am not exempt from the fall of humanity; therefore, I aid in blemishing the world.
Leaving evidence of my habitation-- even if for a short moment-- is not always a material object left behind. I share hallowed pieces of my being through close human interactions. I have shared the consecrated places of myself with a child-like excitement to find them later decimated. Have the trash that I have left in cherished spaces been other than physical? Have I accepted someone’s gift of hospitality only to return it with fresh blemishes? Awakening to the possibility my existence is toxic sends a tremble through my body and soul. Yet, God is still with me in those moments as I-- sometimes unknowingly-- walk in and out the lives of other humans.
***
I stand with my arms wide and a smile stretched just as my mother had done when she brought me for the first time. I was with my brother and my father after a long day of hiking the trails when my mother decided to bring us to this familiar location in search for an overgrown trail. My brother and I were masters at exploring off the beaten path as we walked, but my mother was still the one to rediscover the trail. The week we discovered it, we made return visits almost every day. After that week the glamour of the new place faded to my family and we would only go if we wanted to show off to some friends about our cool secret place.
Once I got my driver’s license, visiting this part of the park was one of the first places I drove. Although, this time was different because I was alone and I could stay for however long I wanted without a worry in my mind. The glamour never really faded in my mind and I have always enjoyed our visits to this place as a family, but now I could visit whenever I wanted. So, I did just that, I went-- all the time. I would go to read, I would go to sit, I would go and eat food, I would go to bring friends, I would go for every reason imaginable and if I could not find a reason I made one up.
Most of my visits began to change as the weather got warmer and colder, but in some aspect, I was always with the water. My visitors began to expand to my family instead of a few close friends that come every so often. At one particular visit, I brought my cousin Katie and as we were walking down the trail the sounds of the water were different. The water was being unnaturally disturbed. Our walk shifted to a jog, and almost instantly our feet were on the edge of a rock facing the river. In the corner of our view, the fins of about ten fish were swimming up the rocks toward a whirlpool at the base of the waterfall. What we thought was the sound of distressed water was actually the sound of their bodies smacking the stone as they tried to swim upstream.
Looking into the shallow whirlpool, my cousin and I were able to count about five more fish who had successfully flopped their bodies over the rock. The fish swimming in circles almost hypnotizingly grasps our attention for a short time before we began to climb along the river. Until I realized-- the small pool would soon disappear and the brave fish you endured the dry stone to find this place would have to retreat back to the river.
***
Am I a fish?
It was not during the initial visit seeing the fish swim upstream or watching the successful few swim in circles, but much later that God initiated our next conversation. Pondering for days the image of those fish struggling to obtain something so finite to their existence was revelatory. I see myself do that same thing almost on a daily basis. The simple pleasures of achieving such a hard task drive me away from the true source of life because of their false glamour or because my peers are also on a similar mission.
Those fish have no idea their new pool of water is such a limited supply they will have to return to the river, but I do because I can see the bigger picture. God knows the bigger picture in my life too, but regardless, God still respects my decision to explore even if it means moving away from life. The river is long and wide, but I still find myself attracted to the shallow puddles just off the shore. Temporary pleasures in my life have driven me away from the fresh, renewed waters into exasperated expressions of falsehood. Although I always return to the true source of life I continue to wander along the shore unable to be satisfied with what I am granted. I understand the impossibility to see the whole picture, but nevertheless, I make decisions knowing I will eventually need to retreat back.
***
Katie was the first of my extended family I shared my sacred place with, but now I bring more and more of my family. Their knowledge of the sanctity of that place could be nonexistent, but I still share it with them. One of my most recent visits was with my three younger cousins-- one of them being my Godchild-- and my uncle and it was marvelous to see the spark of excitement in their eyes as they ran around the stones and ventured close to the water. Each dressed for something other than hiking, the dirt began to paint their clothes and the river water turned it into mud smearing even more. Their new basketball shoes caked with mud and with every step a little more water seeping out onto the dry rocks. All at once, they let go of their inhibitions and experienced a carefree afternoon that would absolutely need to end in a long shower. Leaving we went and got lunch, but the only thing on my mind was my hope that by sharing my sacred waterfall along with my rock and my log they would also feel the fullness of God’s presence in that place.
My mind’s eye bestows images of that place and a still visit often while I am away from home. On my pilgrimage home for holidays, I visit my place and refresh the images with a more current landscape. No matter how much time has passed, I still find my rock and my log untouched by human interactions. The trash still splits the image of serenity by blotching nature in unnatural colors and immorality. Going home, the ghosts of my previous visits are now joined by others and the memories flood, crashing into my mind full of emotion and truth. My conversations with God have never been restricted to that singular place, but I will always find it to be where everything is clearer. So civilized I find myself captured by God’s gregarious wilderness with wide eyes and an open heart.
S. V. Mariano is a published author out of Ohio and Senior of Indiana Wesleyan University in Marion, Indiana. He has self-published his own book and been published in Barren Magazine which led to a nomination for The Best Flash Fiction of 2018. As of now, he continues to find where home is as he continues to venture further into adult life.
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