Go as a River

by Shelley Read

Try as we might to convince ourselves otherwise, the moments of our becoming cannot be carefully plucked like the ripest and most satisfying peach from the bough. In the endless stumble toward ourselves, we harvest the crop we are given.

No matter how slow and arduous its course, no matter what trickle seeped through, I knew it would find a way to keep flowing. And when it did, I, in my new life along the North Fork, would be on the other side to meet it.

But carrying your sorrows all alone isn’t strength, V. It’s punishment, plain and simple.

“Loss has nothing to do with what you deserve or don’t deserve, for God’s sake.”

Strength, I had learned, was like this littered forest floor, built of small triumphs and infinite blunders, sunny hours followed by sudden storms that tore it all down. We are one and all alike if for no other reason than the excruciating and beautiful way we grow piece by unpredictable piece, falling, pushing from the debris, rising again, and hoping for the best.