“_______________, is that you?”
I didn’t answer and kept walking.
“_______________, is that you?”
The man’s voice called out from beneath the bridge. I looked through the bushes and saw him standing over his bike, baseball cap on, face out of view.
“No, I’m not the person you’re looking for.” I shouted back.
“Oh, hey, do you have a cigarette, or a lighter?”
“No, sorry, I don’t smoke.” I kept walking,
“Okay, well, have a good one.” His voice drifted off.
“Yes, you too. Have a lovely day.”
By this point I had walked past the steps I would usually descend on my way to the river bank. I was aware of his movements and though it best to move along. But with every step I found myself deeply conflicted.
First of all, I had only taken two of my four sunrise pictures, only the ones from the bridge. I needed to get to the river to take the final two pictures for my morning Tweet. It is my ritual; I enjoy it immensely. Down by the river is where I often sit, greeting the sun, setting my intentions for the day. The minutes spent by the water every morning are so peaceful. It is my place of calm.
Pictures aside, there was an urgency to get down there and mark a few spots. My hand played with the red marker in my pocket. I was creating a map of where to take the pictures for when I could no longer get there myself. That day was fast approaching.
I walked another hundred feet and stopped.
‘He hasn’t done anything wrong’, I said to myself, my inner monologue examining my actions. ‘Why am I afraid? He asked for cigarettes, that’s not unusual. Nothing has happened. I am fine. Yes, it’s very early in the day, but I am here too. I believe in the inherent goodness of people. He’s a community member like anyone else. What does it matter what I believe in if my actions don’t align with my values?’
I turned around and walked back.
As I made my way down the steps, he called out.
“Is that you again?”
“Yes” I called back, adding a bit of nervous laughter.
“No cigarettes?”
“No, just going for a walk.” I stepped off the paved path that curved towards where he stood and instead headed towards the river walk.
I walked through the tall grass and glanced back. Nothing.
I walked down the hill and glanced back. Nothing.
I walked along the steep river bank on the narrow path and glanced back. Nothing.
I got to the one spot where, with practice, I had learned to safely climb down the sharp bank to the rocks that lined the river. The water was still. I hopped stone to stone and reached my large flat rock.
I sat down crisscross, my knees barely an inch or two above the water, and took my pictures. It was so quiet, I was mesmerized by the water passing ever so slowly. I pulled out my red marker and marked my rock with a big X, then wrote on a flat rock beside it the aperture to be used for the final two pictures in the set of four.
Selecting my favorite four pictures, I started my tweet. “July 11, 2021 sunrise.” I was about to insert the sun emoji when a noise caught my attention.
I glanced back.
The man from under the bridge was standing at the top of the river bank, at the spot where I climb down. For a moment I stopped breathing.
“How do you get down there?” he asked.
I stood up, holding my phone, and turned to face him.
“It’s steep, you have to be careful. It’s not easy.” I answered as calmly as I could.
“Yeah, I’ll just sit here then” and he sat down. He was in the one and only spot where I could get back up to the path, where I needed to go to get home.
“What’s your name?” he asked. I answered and asked him the same.
“Where do you work?” he asked. I answered and asked him the same.
The questions and answers continued. At times there were awkward pauses and silence, as though neither of us knew what to say. I hadn’t moved except to press send on my tweet and to put my phone into my pocket.
“Do you do drugs?” he asked.
“No” I answered. His face changed. “Some people do, some people don’t. There’s no judgement” I added.
“I wanna stop” he murmured under his breath.
“Do you know where there are resources to help you?” I asked.
“Yeah… I just can’t. I can’t do it.”
There was a long pause in the conversation.
He looked at me briefly then back down at the river. I wasn’t sure what would come next.
Out of nowhere, other voices entered the space. We looked up at the bridge overhead. Three cyclists rode along the sidewalk. They were there maybe a minute and then gone.
We were alone again.
I knew calling out wouldn’t have made a difference, we were too far away. Screaming was also unfairly accusing him of some sort of wrong doing, when he had done nothing wrong.
I thought of running into the river, but I knew my strength would fail me.
A minute passed.
Then another.
‘He hasn’t done anything wrong’ I reminded myself. ‘He’s only wanted to talk to me.’ I knew if I was afraid I couldn’t be compassionate.
“You’ll find a way.”
He looked at me blankly.
I had been standing on that rock for nearly twenty minutes, motionless. The ache inside my abdomen was growing. I never took painkillers before my morning walks; if needed I would slow down and rest, but I wanted to feel the sunrise without the numbing. What made the long walk there and back possible was the time I’d spend sitting in between, resting, admiring the horizon. Some days I’d watch the sun come up slowly, losing track of time entirely. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes would pass. This was a Sunday morning, I could be there for an hour.
“Well, my kids are waiting for me. I need to go home and make breakfast.” I moved towards him. Telling him I had kids felt like a desperate plea to not be harmed.
“Okay” he answered and stood up. He backed away a little bit so that I could climb up the bank.
We were only three or four feet apart, not really making eye contact.
I raised my hand and gestured, “please, go ahead”, inviting him to walk ahead of me along the narrow path between the fence and the drop off.
“You go first,” he answered, and took a step off the path.
I smiled, certain my eyes would betray the terror I was feeling.
I moved forward; now we were within a foot of each other, perpendicular. My eyes were on the ground, holding me steady. It took all of my willpower to not start begging him not to hurt me. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong. He hasn’t done anything wrong’, I kept saying to myself. ‘He’s just a person, I’m going to be okay.’ My eyes began to fill with tears.
“You don’t have to be scared of me,” came his voice, the words so close I could feel his breath against the side of my face.
“Ok,” I answered meekly.
One step, two, three, past his bike, towards the hill, I walked without ever turning around again.
‘Don’t run. Don’t run,’ my mind was racing. I just kept walking, back into the woods that led to home.
My body was shaking and my legs were giving out. The pain in my abdomen was overwhelming, three more days until surgery, and it would all be better. Physically, I would be better, but what of my spirit?
I knew my fear wasn’t about him. Logically, I understood that what I was feeling wasn’t because of anything he had done. The magnitude of the moment was more about the trauma I carried than it was about the actions of the person in front of me. The birthplace of my fear and this man existed decades apart. But in the midst of it, none of that mattered. I was afraid. I didn’t want to be afraid. I fought hard to not act on my fear. I didn’t change my path. But my courage didn’t come without a price.
I got home, made my coffee, and sat in my garden. My tomatoes were gently blanketed by the rising sun, it was quiet and I was safe. My mind replayed what had just happened.
Nothing, yet something terrifying had happened.
I pushed the thoughts away as my painkillers slowly took effect. My body relaxed and I smiled seeing my six-year-old daughter, half asleep and only wearing underwear, standing behind the patio door waving at me. Another beautiful day was just beginning.
The next morning, I drove my car to see sunrise.
I stood at the edge of the woods and cried. I couldn’t go in.
The truth is, twenty-five years ago I was violently assaulted. I was a child. That attack robbed me of my innocence and poisoned me with a fear of men I’ve been forced to face ever since.
‘When will I stop being afraid?’
Not today.
I got back in the car and drove to the bridge itself. Turning on my hazards, I parked on road within sight of passing vehicles and walked to take pictures on bridge. I stood at the top of the stairs for a long time. I took one step down, then another, then another, scanning the woods, the underneath of the bridge, the path. I got to the bottom and froze again.
An elderly man with two long walking sticks, whom I had seen many times before at sunrise, walked down the stairs.
“Excuse me. Can you do me a favor please,” I asked.
“Of course, what do you need?”
“I need to go down to the river over there, but I’m too afraid to go alone…” I explained the preceding day, the year of sunrises, the happiness I’ve felt along the river, and I started to cry.
The next day I didn’t go alone either.
What about tomorrow?
I don’t know. I don’t know about tomorrow. Tomorrow is the last sunrise I will see before I go for surgery. It’ll be a few days before I can safely walk without bothering the stitches that’ll be across my stomach. It’ll be some time before I’ll even have enough strength to descend those stairs.
But when will I stop being afraid?
Today I brought the thick red sharpie with me again and finished marking the spots where I take my sunrise pictures. Today was my 194th sunrise. When I am not able to come, a friend has agreed to take my phone and continue taking the photos. I will lay in bed and look at the sky from a distance.
It’s a commitment I’ve made to myself and a commitment I’ve made to those who enjoy the images. It’s my small way of connecting with others during a time of profound disconnection.
And once I am well enough, I will return there myself.
It doesn’t belong to me, the river’s edge, but in those early minutes of every day, it is my space, part of my life. I won’t surrender that precious time, the joy that fills my heart, the hope that breaks the horizon.
Some wounds heal, some linger. I am learning to honour my scars, they are after all, the milestones of my journey. I am also learning that in the same way that the flowing water sustains life, my return to sunrise will be an act of resilience, it will sustain my spirit.
