(Written in Zion National Park at Voices for the West Writing Workshop, hosted by Torrey House Press and Craig Childs)

Today I met a woman from Durango, Colorado, whose mom brought supplies to the search for Ian, quietly, without recognition. I do not remember meeting her, nor did she know any of us personally. She did however, have a child with epilepsy, which is as personal as it gets.

Nine months and three hundred and sixty one miles away from the search zone, I am reminded of the kindness of strangers. How it can never be accounted for accurately.

Down to the river we walked, nodding to each other as we chose our separate paths: her, a picnic table to type on her computer, and me: a green chair closer to the water with pen and paper. Other workshop participants spread out along the banks of the Virgin River, resting their backs on the trunks or climbing up the thick branches of old, gnarled cottonwood trees.

A wily man, our workshop leader, stood barefoot in the sand playing his flute. It was the signal we were all waiting for to begin our writing. Each gentle note floated down to the river, creating a harmony of man’s music with Mother Nature’s song.

The binding on my journal was moments away from falling off. The cover with pine trees painted on it was no use to me, and I had little desire to continue writing the flash flood piece I was working on before lunch.

Turning to a blank page, I held my pen in my mouth as fresh tears escaped the corner of my eye. Deep breath. Tears dried by the sun before they can fall down my cheek, I close my eyes to tune into the river.

The hum of the water bubbles by us, bellowing out a ballad of time immemorial.

The man with the flute sighs into the wind, who was stealing his melody. My eyes open to watch him tuck the wooden instrument into the roots of a cottonwood and open his notebook. Behind him, the blue green water meanders through a tunnel of bare branches, who stretch across the water with their fingers intertwined. Behind the branches is a canyon of thundering red rock and towering white slab rising above us all.

To sit with water is to sit with Ian, my lover, who died too young.

The ancient cottonwoods chuckle at me. Who am I to say what’s too young? As if I know more than the universe?

“There is no such thing as chaos without order,” the cottonwoods whisper.

Perhaps Ian’s disappearance into the mountains served as the reminder we all needed: our love can change the world.

When death comes, wisdom follows. The notion of death allows us to consider what life we are living, and how well we are loving.

The search for Ian was romantic in the sense that it revealed all kinds of love:

Friendship is magic and neighbors matter.

A stranger’s compassion is as important as familial roots.

Deep, earth shattering love knows no boundaries of time.

Old connections were not lost or forgotten.

And my own romantic soul love for Ian cannot be understated. When he went missing, I rallied the troops to search because I believed in his ability to survive. Watching him endure life’s hardships with a brazen smile led me to believe that he could weather any storm. I was devoted to Ian long after the day he died.

Tears collect on the collar of my shirt, flowing too fast for the sun to catch now.

At what point did the search for Ian O’Brien become a search for closure?

My cheeks are hot, but I stop writing to put on my puffy and zip it all the way up. Safe in the confines of my hood, I tune back into the river.

Though the rocks themselves make no noise, they are responsible for the river’s song.

Without obstacle, River is free to hum along, gently crooning through the canyon. The belting begins when the water encounters a rock. Turning white for a brief moment as it soars up to the sky singing, then cascades down, bubbling back against itself.

If it weren’t for rocks, the river would sing ever so softly, barely audible.

I like the turbulence of stone.

When water encounters a rock it is forced to make a choice: left or right around this boulder.

When Ian didn’t come back from his run we all had a choice: search or don’t.

Like the water encountering a rock, I changed my direction to follow the flow. Paddling hard upstream, I retraced his steps, doing everything I could think of to find him through the tumultuous white rushing water.

And when his body was found in the West Mancos River, I stopped paddling. Submerged in the river, she carried me downstream until I found a quiet eddy to make camp. Clawing my way out of the current, I crawled on a boulder where I laid for several long months, watching the water weave by without me.

That camp is known in my mind as The Weeping Rock, where the willows watched over me. Weakened by the woeful waves, I rested. Only dipping my hand in the water to drink.

Anyone who had ever sat with the silence of stone knows that time cannot be kept. It will pass as the river does in an endless cycle of chaos.

Like all wild creatures, I craved the chaos. Lounging did not suite my longing, so one day I jumped back into the wild water, leaving The Weeping Rock behind.

But I forgot how to swim, so I floated.

The river carried me confidently downstream so I let her, surrendering to the will of water.

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