I rode to the Hand of God Tree* today, and all that’s left now is this, as if God’s giving us the finger. And maybe, after everything lately, He is. Maybe we’ve blown it, and He’s done with us. Or maybe it’s the pointer, held up as the number one. One more chance? One person can make a difference? One singular sensation in every little step we take?
All I know is it was nice there. Peaceful. Hopeful. A hawk circled slowly, deliberately, overhead; Otters played amidst the granite outcroppings that originally gave the river its name, Chattahoochee (meaning “painted rock”). And the unbridled surge of whitewater, emboldened from so much recent rain, rushed hard and fast and strong.
I stood on the sandbar at the base of the Hand (Finger) of God Tree for a long time or a moment (who knows anymore what time is). Finally, I rode away, humbled, yet again — just one small person still trying to put my finger on what my place in it all is.