Why Your Tears Might Just Be the Universe’s Secret Stardust—and Where to Stash Them Before They Sparkle Too Much
Added on November 8, 2025 inASTROLOGY CARDS
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Ever notice how life sometimes feels like that rattle-rumble of gravel under your tires — jarring, unpredictable, yet oddly grounding? As the asphalt gives way and the washboard road kicks in, you’re forced to slow down and soak it all in. That’s exactly the journey I’ve been on for nearly 20 years, with the Deschutes River rolling alongside me like a silent companion through childbirth, heartbreak, messy divorces, and right up to the looming goodbye to my Dad. It’s funny how the cosmos seems to sync up with our inner chaos — like when Mercury decides to throw a cosmic curveball just as your heart’s trying to find some peace. My Dad’s in his final chapter, frail and distant, yet there’s no bitterness here — just a deep well of missing him, pure and unfiltered. So, buckle up as I take you down these winding gravel roads of memory, grief, and unexpected laughter — where every turn reminds me that no matter the turbulence, we keep rollin’ and flowin’, just like those constellations spinning quietly above. LEARN MORE
Asphalt turns to gravel; the washboard rumble is the cue — slow down and feel it all. How many miles have I driven with the Deschutes River out my window? How many tears have I shed here? For almost 20 years, this river and canyon have guided me through miscarriages, parenthood, divorce, breakups, and the loss of my Dad.
Fresh off a trip to Chicago to visit family, and after a talk with my ex-girlfriend this morning, my heart aches. Dad is in his last months. He’s bedridden, skin and bones, and doesn’t recognize me. Unlike too many people I know, I don’t have trauma caused by my Dad. I don’t have to forgive him; I will only miss him.
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It’s time, Dad.
Pnature / Shutterstock
With shaking legs and hands, he pulled himself out of his wheelchair on a viewing dock, and we shared a laugh.
“You come here a lot?” he asked.
“During the divorce years, I came out here all the time. Not as much now. Kids have friends and activities. I have a house to fix. And you know — a girlfriend takes up fishing time. Jesus, Dad, no wonder I’m divorced!”
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He choked up laughing and said, “You always loved fishing.”
I noticed many of nature’s cycles on the river that day: fresh sage sprouting in burn areas, bleached bone remnants, tiny fish hiding near the dock, and dried shucks from insects that lived mere days to lay eggs for the next generation.
We emerge, we grow, we nourish, we love, we shed, we burn, we sprout again, and then we will all decay.
The summer solstice was yesterday, but as Oregonians say, it’s Juneuary. Last night it snowed on Mt. Hood, which is only 50 miles away. Summer temperatures in the canyon reach triple digits for days on end, creating hazardous fire conditions.
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I was here when a fire started from lightning last year. Driving past the hillside that burned, one would never know it with the new growth. Burn areas show me that devastation is the peak of potential. My heart will recover, too, by continuing to love and connect.
With the flow of the river comes a cascade of fishing memories. There’s the run where I caught a steelhead and held it in the water to show my buddies. They were fishing upriver of me; however, they were further away than I thought, their raft taking more than ten minutes to arrive.
As my hands lost feeling in the icy November waters, I questioned my ego and need for proof. It was a perfect example of how, after investing a certain amount of time, there’s no backing out of a task. Frozen hands were worth it not to be called a liar around the campfire and for the laughs it spawned.
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An island splitting the river calls to me. It’s a go-to lunch spot when floating the Deschutes. Last October, I caught a steelhead and kept it for dinner.
When I arrived on the island in my one-man raft, I held it above my head in triumph to show my mates. It happened to be upside down when they took the picture, another classic. So many slimy, grip-and-grin pictures in this canyon. Tomorrow I will have lunch on the island with my friend, who is meeting me with his boat in the morning.
Young mergansers swirl in an eddy, kingfishers chatter, and a blue heron perches in the grass, gazing at the water. I, too, have spent months of my life staring at the ever-changing surface of this river, noticing the bubbles and textures down to the tiniest, fleeting details. One December day, I donned my surfing wetsuit and captured those textures with snow on the hills. I grew closer to the river on that day.
Tumbleweed blows across the road, and I wish time would slow down. During trips in the wet season with my young kids, I’d let them play with fire by tossing tumbleweeds onto the flames. Those early days in the canyon helped us escape the big feelings caused by divorce.
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Being in the womb of the canyon suppressed dangerous and unregulated tantrums in the kids and softened anger in me. Although the kids’ excitement for our trips has waned a bit in their teen years, I’m confident they will know the golden walls, and the crimson swirls of an eddy at sunset will be there for them as life gets more complicated.
Turkeys invaded our campsite as we lay on a blanket in the spring sun, appearing out of nowhere and staring at us like we were the ones crashing their party. Maybe we were. Her tiny dog was in danger of being hunted by raptors, so I kept an eye out, ready to take the hit of talons. In addition to loving all furries, I knew if her dog were eaten, there would surely be a lack of cuddles.
After we set up camp and her dog was safely in the truck, she suggested we take a sleeping bag up the hillside at sunset. We giggled like teenagers making out in a park when a train passed.
Special places are better with loved ones and good lovin’. I still had a lot of divorce-healing to do when I dated that woman. She yelled at me when I ended it, but I was being honest with my feelings at the time. Through a lot of dirt road rumbling, I’ve learned about boundaries and being true to myself because living a lie is a poor way to die.
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Dust plumes follow me along basalt cliffs where I’ve seen big horn sheep, and my favorite campground comes into view. Despite it being 60 degrees, winter air nips at my nose, I hear the fire crackling, and see starry skies and glowing faces. I’ve spent many crisp nights with my kids, friends, and my Ex at the campground.
My ex and I set up a riverside hot tub twice in 2023, soaking in steamy 108-degree water, then running into the 48-degree river for a cold plunge. I feel her goosebumps, and our cold-lipped kisses. Devastation plows through me like a flash flood.
A half mile downriver, there’s the grassy flat where I lay with her after making love under blue skies with sweet sagebrush scents. She snuggled into the crook of my arm and asked, “Babe, are we going to grow old together?”
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It was the first time I had imagined the idea since early in my marriage, and we melted into each other. I regret bringing her to my sanctuary for a moment, but the panting smile on Halo, my dog, snaps me out of the resentful thought. Of course, I should share my happy place with those I love.
The five years with my ex were amazing, and I’d do it again. Halo, like Big Head, my old lab has fed generations of ticks, rolled in rotting deer, and eaten cow dung in the canyon. How many more dogs will grace my life? Who will I snuggle next in this blessed place when I am ready?
I project some bro energy into Halo, and he says, “What the heck, Dad? You still crying about that gal? Harden up, Mate! And where’s the beef?”
In response, I laugh and swing right hooks and an uppercut, promising him we’ll stop soon. He growls and gnaws at my fist. When I lean over, he gives me the kisses I need.
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Gravel switches back to pavement for a large hill. I notice how smooth it is and grin. Tomorrow morning, I will bomb the hill on my skateboard. Today, I am too empty and numb for adrenaline.
Once at camp, I nap and take Halo for long walks up and down the canyon, passing the evening hours with long exhales and inhaling gratitude. I will carry on Dad’s legacy by being the best Dad I can be. I will love again. With light still on the horizon, I’m fast asleep.
My eyes open with golden hues in the Eastern skies. I make coffee and drive to the hill for a skate with song lyrics speaking to me.
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Let us follow where rivers flow
Let’s see how far we can go
Hollow coves — anew
I’m hyper aware of my body walking up the hill from the curling of toes to the tightening of calves, my vertebrae twisting and bending, and up to the breath on my lips. Being present does that. This place may be here tomorrow, but I may not. Nothing is guaranteed. Anything can happen. Gonna live it while I can.
I kick rocks and pebbles off the road and set up my phone to capture the ride. At the top, I exhale audibly and begin my descent, carving tightly until the speed makes me draw out my turns. There’s no escaping grief, but the wind on my face helps.
At the bottom, I hitch a ride back up the hill with a couple of guys in a truck for another run. Riding in the truck bed, I punch at the sky and hoot.
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At the boat ramp, I give my buddy a back-slapping hug. Fishing brings me to beautiful places and brings me friends. We load up and push off. With the downhill carves on my skateboard fresh in my spine and the bob of the boat, I take it all in.
There’s nothing to do but keep rollin’ and flowin’. We can steer a little, but we’re always at the mercy of the currents.
Ryan Chin is a Dad, author, remodel contractor, and substitute teacher. He’s the author of two books, has written award-winning essays, and has been featured in several anthologies, The Good Men Project, and Medium.
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