The parking lot was empty when I pulled into Watermelon Falls (the local people actually called it that) and I was already a little disappointed. Maybe it was too early for a Fourth of July swim in Appalachia. Or maybe the mountain water was too cold, even in the summer.

I put the windows up before killing the engine, a rattle in the machinery troubling. It really was a shame I was in so much debt. And divorced. Maybe it was for the best that Dan and I never had kids. Their innocent little lives would be shit.

I rubbed my face in my hands, acknowledging my sadness as it rolled through me.

It had been a year since I signed the divorce papers, ending an unhappy marriage to a closeted evangelical pastor. It was normal and healthy to experience negative feelings, but I got to choose how I reacted to them.

I was responsible for my own happiness.

I took a deep breath and smiled, blinking away tears and opening the door to my shitty Ford Escape. I ignored the rust as it crumbled away from the wheel wells. A pink bikini shifted over my skin beneath my loose t-shirt and gym shorts.

Dan was gay. He couldn’t want me. Upon further research, Christianity turned out to be nothing more than another mythology. I was free. At thirty-one, I was still young enough to make my life into what I wanted it to be.

I grabbed a bag with towels, bottled water, and a novel I’d been struggling to finish. I could still have a good time.

Water rushed down the mountainside, steady and powerful as sound echoed up from the bottom of the gorge. It had been a cold, wet spring and early summer. The natural pools around the base of the waterfall would be deep enough for an adult to swim.

I wanted to be close to families on the holiday, even if it was just in passing. I wanted to be around people having fun even though the whole world was on fire. Maybe others would turn up.

Gravel crunched beneath my feet as I made my way toward the trail that led down to the base of the waterfall. The air cooled as I descended a path built to soften the slope’s steepness. I followed its twists and turns, water dripping from leaves. Birds called to one another and the lush beauty of the ferns and rhododendrons growing from the rocky soil humbled me.

Feeling small used to be scary because it forced me to face my own insignificance. I used to run to God when I felt scared. When I needed to feel special. Like I had worth.

But after sitting in that fear, I came to realize there was freedom in a meaningless existence. If nothing I did mattered in the end, then I could do whatever I wanted. My life was my own. Not God’s.

I didn’t have to stay miserable in a sexless, childless marriage because divorce is a sin. I didn’t have to forgive my ex for lying to me all those years, for blaming me for his lack of physical attraction to my body.

Thick branches and broken sticks littered the path, the park staff likely overwhelmed by the clean up from the previous storm. Maybe I could volunteer. I had the time.

I chuckled to myself, adjusting my bag on my shoulder as the waterfall came into view. No more Bible studies. Youth group. Women’s ministry.

Just nature.

Watermelon Falls was humble as far as waterfalls go, but it made for a glorious sight as it poured over the cliff face, a relief cave opening up behind it. Beams of sunlight shone through gaps in the leaves and glittered on the water’s surface.

It was hard to feel sorry for myself amidst the beauty of the natural world. I was grateful I got to be a part of it.

I paused and listened to the water crash into the deep pool below, ripples spreading along the surface as the water channeled into shallow areas. It would eventually empty into the larger river at the end of the gorge. In the summertime, people came from all over to play beneath Watermelon Falls. Sometimes they brought their dogs. Joyful shouting and laughing echoed up out of the gorge instead of rushing water. It was an unexpected delight to find it so peaceful.

I took a deep breath and turned down the path, excited as I rounded a bend, ready to have a good time even though I was alone.

A massive oak tree had fallen over the path, limbs and branches obscuring the way like a maze. I stopped dead in my tracks, stunned. That must’ve been why there was no one else there on the holiday. Maybe I’d missed a ‘Trail Closed’ sign or something. I closed my eyes, hands on my hips as I turned away with disgust. Watermelon Falls was part of the State Park system, so I couldn’t even blame it on the current presidential administration.

I should’ve followed the rules or at least deferred to common sense. The old me would’ve done exactly that; stomped back up to the car all sad and pissed off. But I knew I could pick my way through that tree. I could still have a good time. There was no one else down there to see me do it.

And if someone did see me, what would they do? Yell? Tell me to get out? Write me a ticket?

They’d have to put me in jail when I couldn’t pay, but then I wouldn’t have to go to work.

I laughed as I made my way over to the tree and crouched, slipping between two branches. My bag slid down my arm and I swore, giggling. Why had I always been so afraid to have fun?

I pulled my bag back to my shoulder and brushed my hair out of my face, the answer lurking at the edges of my consciousness. I hoisted my leg over a thick branch with a grunt, cursing myself for wearing shorts.

Deep down, I’d always been afraid I would like having fun more than I liked God.

My other leg got caught in a tangle of broken sticks and I yanked it out, the force sending me over the otherside of the thick branch with a crash. I cried out, sharp points jabbing my arms and legs as they scratched my face. My bag got caught on a branch and I clung to it, knowing that if I let go I’d never get it back.

It served me right in a way. For abandoning the faith I’d been raised in. For divorcing my husband. For doing something foolish.

I shook my head. Religious trauma was a bitch.

Who cared if I did something stupid? I was having a good time.

I seized my bag tight in my fist and yanked it toward me, wood snapping as I wrestled it back from the tree. With a deep breath I hugged it to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut. No point in praying.

I rolled to my right, branches and twigs snapping beneath my weight and tearing at my skin and clothing. Mud squelched beneath my tennis shoes as I pushed up into a crouching position, branches pressing down on me. I saw my way through and I took it, diving through a gap in the broken branches. I landed hard on my belly, a burst of pain stunning me giddy.

I laughed as I wrapped my arms around my waist, drawing my knees to my chest. I’d only been having fun for ten minutes and I already liked it more than I liked God. I stood and put my bag on my other shoulder, smiling as I made my way down to the bottom of the path, water lapping at a muddy bank that curved along the edge of the relief cave.

Broken limbs and even a few tree trunks littered the bottom of the gorge, splintered ends poking up out of the water. Mossy boulders and the occasional patch of ferns made the place look enchanted. Somehow sacred.

I spread two towels on the driest bit of ground I could find and sat. Just listening. Being.

I gave up on the book I’d brought with a sigh, setting it down beside me. In an effort to be better-read, I’d begun adding non-fiction into my reading. I’d enjoyed many of the histories and biographies I’d picked up, but I was in no mood for the neuroscience behind emotions that morning.