Heat presses down on my skin, pushing up tiny beads of perspiration. They evaporate quickly. Drop by precious drop, I become the atmosphere.
In the blessed shade of the rock, I place my palm on the sandstone. It is cool to the touch. Numberless flecks of ancient sand compressed into this towering wall of sanctuary rising up before me. I touch history. I am a part of history.
The undulating rock bears the scars of the force that created it. Water. Life-giving water, ever flowing.
Sometimes gentle rivulets. Other times brutal floods drowning everything in their path. Purging the old to create the new. Baptism.
I bear the scars of the forces that have created me. Even I cannot see them, they are scars on my soul. Words spoken and unspoken, steps taken forward and then backward, loves present and loves lost. Some scars I love, other I hate.
But always there is the changing. Life purging the old to create the new.
An eternal baptism of experience.