Next Steps

For most of the year the streams in California are a tumble of boulders, with the slight tinkle of water slipping below. These boulders are irregular and pale grey tinged with pink, often warmed by the sun. In the winter, when the creak runs full and brown after a rain, they sometimes move along with the water. For the moment, they are still and solid under the irregular sunlight slipping through alders that line the banks. As a kid I would go leaping as fast as I could from one to the other. There was an element of danger to rock-hopping, and an accompanying exhilaration. The point was to risk danger, to risk the twist of the wrong step, the possibility of tumbling into water, into stone.

The key was to think not only of the next step, but the next three… to know where to push with strength, when to pause. One foot on the small crack, then leap, then two steps over the hump, then right on the small one near the water, and large leap to the left. Look at me, I'm in control, unstoppable, strong. This is not unlike looking for a job, where an ability to know where your foot will land, to sense an unstable rock and avoid it or move quickly to the next is an essential survival skill. Sometimes, things become clearer, and the steps line up: if I go here, then this will lead here, then to where I want to be, the nice big one over there in the sun.