Mountain Spring

I grew up in the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina in North America. We lived along a Native American trail that led to a mountain spring. I liked to walk to the spring and crouch down by the small pool of water that flowed out of the rocks. Surrounding the spring were Rhododendrons with their beautiful pink blooms in summer. This place of the spring was small and intimate; I could be quiet there. Someone had left a tin cup and I would sip the cold water and feel nourished. One day many years later, I came to visit my parents from my home far away. I walked the path to the spring again, like visiting the Grandmother spirit of the Mountains. When I reached that place I saw that a road been laid over the spring. I was filled with grief. When I told my father he said “It’s okay. That spring will come up in some other place.” He was optimistic, but I wasn’t reassured. In my father’s lifetime he was certain that the cycle of destruction and rebirth would continue… that the tin cup would always fill again with cool water.