“Watch your step. These floors are very thin in places” our guide whispered. Scott was twenty something and knew every path and tunnel in the Rubber Chicken cave. Our group, two women and three men, ducked low along the passageway through mud and rock. The cavern was supposed to open up in a few more feet so that we could rest and look around. Anxiety sprinted through neurons before settling at the base of my throat. I was more than ready to stand upright.
One by one we passed through the “squeeze” and into a large opening nicknamed “the auditorium.” The walls were decorated with formations sculpted by running water throughout the centuries. A natural shelf made of stone faced the east wall of the auditorium. It was covered in small piles of rock and other found objects.
Our guide explained the meaning and tradition behind the stony structures. Those who had traveled these passageways before us had left mounds of rock and sometimes statues to mark a special event in their lives. Light from his flashlight bounced off mounds, pyramids, memorials until resting on his marker. It had been standing, perfectly balanced, for fifteen years.
I built my base with stones half the size of my palm. A stone that fit my thumb and pointer finger balanced precariously atop the mound. Tucked deep into the shelf was proof I was strong enough to fight my crippling anxiety and depression.
I was here.
Linked to Tale Weaver #26 Inuksuk from Mindlovemisery Menagerie