Cold wind forces me to find a sheltered spot along the bank. I can see my house from here and yet I have never come down to the creek from this angle.

The forest is in transition. Hanging in liminal space between fall and winter. Glorious red berries hang in bunches above me and I feel sure that I catch a whiff of their sweetness as they dehydrate with the cold.

Sun and wind seem to be chasing each other back and forth today. The wind is winning and warning that there is more to come.

Nevertheless, the water sings a cheerful tune as it flows over the rocks, even as the edges close in with ice, a playful canvas for the changing reflection of the sky. Eventually it too will transition to it’s solid form, energy held in one place for a season.

I wonder at the way we also go through seasons of transition that bring us to a halt for a time, until the time for movement comes again. The states of transition, whether water, ice or steam do not change the core identity of H2O. Can I too, lean into transition, hang in the liminal space, and trust that the core of my identity in God remains the same?