My grandfather wasn’t the lap you ran to. He was rarely sitting until the end of the day. Oh, we knew he cared, of course, that was undeniable, but his “safe place to land,” was often not a landing at all, but a continuing through. A fall from the apple tree was not hugged away. Knees would be brushed off, and signaled on. He wasn’t as crude to say shake it off, if we were already shook by the electric fence, but a gentle leading hand to the back told us an open field still lay ahead. He didn’t suffer squabbles between cousins. Had no time for whining. And it was on this very farm, just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota that I learned, it takes strength to be gentle and kind. 

Standing at the edge of the vast opening of earth in Canyonlands National Park, my eyes wind their way through the Green River. I can feel the support of the ground beneath me. I can hear his voice echo through the canyon. Wasn’t it after a fall from my cousin’s bike? A bike too big for me. A bike I was warned against. A bike I climbed upon anyway, never reaching the seat, only bobbing my head above the handlebars as my feet pumped furiously. A bike whose pedal would scar my knee before throwing me to the ground. And wasn’t it my grandfather who wiped the blood on his sleeve? (No need for the coveted band-aid.) “You’re only as deep as what’s carved into you,” he smiled, taking my hand, walking me to a new project in the shed. 

The river has been harsh at times, with its carving. But I don’t stand before it afraid. Nor alone. It is beautiful. And I have felt every curve to my core. Always have, always will. But that has never made me weak. I hope that it makes me kind. I run off toward today’s shed, there’s so much to do, so much to learn.