I think people who love you take the best pictures of you. Not that this is the best picture of me, but my mom took it on the Bull Run River (the best river don't let the unspectacular stretch of muddy water fool you) and I like it. I like that my legs look strong, and even though my strap is about to fall off my shoulder and I'm slouched toward the branch I'm leaning on a weird angle, I look happy and I recognize myself.

I love the Bull Run; I used to play in it when I was little. During a particular unsupervised adventure, I was with my friend (the first girl who ever kissed me, much to my confusion at the time) whose house backed up to the river. We were probably 9 or 10. There was this little... I want to call it an island, which is the word we used for it then, but it was more likely just the sandy opposite bank. Well, the alluring "island" was covered in bluebells, and it was gorgeous, and mysterious, and us being bad little kids, we got this desperate notion that we really wanted to get over there, that some good adventure was waiting on the other side. We were all worked up. We spent ages looking for a log or something to cross on, but it was no good, soon it became apparent that the only thing that would do would be to ford the river.

 I started across, my shorter friend traveling in my wake. The water was fairly shallow, but there was this deeper channel that came about up to my chest which was scary, and cold, and thrilling. I remember being surprised by the strength of the current, but also my body's ability to bear it and maintain my path through to the end. I was really struck by the experience--that one could merely decide to wade determinedly through a frightening experience and come out on the other side to bluebells and uncharted horse trails. This matter of will and body.

Anyway, that's what I was thinking about when I was looking at the water.