Springer's Journey

This will be a record of a moment in time when I decided to pay attention again.

Last night, the rain came hard.

Not the kind you can ignore. The kind that soaks through the edges of everything and asks you a simple question: Are you paying attention?

I was in my tent, listening.

There’s a different sound to rain when you’re outside with it. It’s not background noise. It’s a presence. It gathers on the tarp, presses down with its weight, finds the low places, and tests every decision you made before you went to sleep.

And then I noticed something.

Water always goes where it wants to go.

Not where I wish it would go. Not where I hoped it would go. Where gravity takes it.

So I made a small decision.

I got up, stepped out into the rain, and moved my tent uphill. Not far—maybe two feet. Just enough to change the conversation between the ground and the water.

Two feet.

That was all it took.

The water kept moving, just like it always does. But this time, it moved around me instead of through me.

There was no panic. No big moment. Just attention… and a response.

I think I used to believe that strength looked like big decisions. Big changes. Big declarations.

But last night taught me something different.

Sometimes strength looks like noticing.

Sometimes it looks like standing in the rain and adjusting your position by two feet.

And trusting that it matters.

Because it does.

This morning, everything is still damp. The air is cold. I’m heading into town to find gloves and something warm.

But I’m not discouraged.

I’m paying attention.

And that feels like the beginning of something.

—

Written with the help of a quiet conversation and a steady presence.