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Wet Feet and Voices in the Stream
- Payton Hoegh
- 7 days ago
- 2 min read
By Payton Hoegh, Program Director
This weekend, while snow and ice was blanketing much of the east coast of the US, I was shin-deep in a canyon stream. It was cool, not cold, and rushing in a way I hadn’t seen in ages. The sun filtered through branches still bared in winter’s rest and full canopies coaxed into new life by weeks of rain. The layered contrasts in this scene were not lost on me, and they extended far beyond varied ecological responses and distinct seasonal expressions.
As the water flowed around my calves, I was sinking my feet into the sand below. My arms were linked with friends and strangers to make a living, breathing bridge to support hikers on precarious stones and branches as they crossed sections of trail that are typically easily traversed. Soon, those vibrant waterways will once again be dry creek beds as winter makes way for spring and the drier heat of summer begins to emerge. But in that moment, we reveled in the little roar of the stream and held out our hands for those who didn’t much feel like wading in the water. This embodiment of generosity - an instinctual, unquestioning expression of care - struck me somehow as jarringly as the chill slowly soaking into my boots. It stood out from the persistent noise of fracture, division, and isolation that feel so pervasive these days. It felt like a faint echo of encouraging scenes of mutual aid in the wake of disasters, the steadfast support for friends and neighbors in need that we’ve seen so often in communities across the country and the globe.
This little linked-arm ritual of care repeated twice more before we laid out blankets on the shore and let the sun dry our water-wrinkled feet. Under the evergreen eaves of a twisted old oak we reflected on the weight of the world... but it felt lighter next to that rushing stream. It felt safer with the gentle glare of the sun freckling our faces. More than that, we found in our own bridge-building and in the quiet wisdom of nature a meaningful response to some of what pressed so heavy on our hearts.
We talked about the roots of the trees holding the soil fast against the pull of rushing water, the dutiful attention of a hummingbird tending to tiny eggs in her thimble-sized nest, the fascinating way lichen moves with slow and subtle symbiosis to offer its gifts for a thriving ecosystem. We marveled at reddish buds of spring blossoms waiting patiently for the right time to bloom.
Before re-donning our still-soaked socks to start the walk back to the trailhead, we paused for a few moments just to listen quietly to the running water.
After a while, someone broke the silence to say: “There are so many voices in the stream.”
Truer words have never been spoken.
I hope that, when the world feels heavy, we can remember to stop and listen to all the voices that speak of love, care, and community. I hope we add our voice to the stream and get our feet wet weaving it all together.
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