To stand on the edge of a river and smell the wet clay and sand, to see the magic silver waters lap repeatedly in the same spot, flicking off the sun in glittering specks and hiding crawdads and minnows in shadowy pockets, curling about those old patient rocks that have lain there for who knows how long…. This is a place of solace. This is a place for stopping and breathing; for listening; for shedding the pace for a precious unfettered time. We aren’t just visiting a foreign place. We are coming back to a place that holds the same chemistry in its bones as is in our own. We seek out nature because we are nature.
Sometimes it’s too much, grinding along in this life, watching the energy wasted in futile battles of mole hills that have been exaggerated into mountains. The vast, skewed life views, the misunderstandings, the bitterness and cruelty born of never having been loved enough, the fear of alienation, and ultimately the dread of death. Sometimes it is indeed too much, and exhausting in its mystery. What is this all about? What is the point of this odyssey? Are we ever to know? Will death bring a bright, warm light to the mysteries of this gravity-ruled existence on this planet, so sadly sick right now? Will we understand at last? Will the clarity come to us in a rush and make us gasp “Of course!” One has to hope.
In the meantime, because it is too much, we find our way to the riverbank for respite. Standing on that carpet of pine needles, cushy and fragrant, we can get the first glimpse of the water flickering between the trees. It’s so exciting to see it there, to know it still runs, it still exists. It’s still carving the path onward, digging in a fraction more along the curved banks every moment. It looks the same but could hardly be more different, as every moment the water is new. Every ribboned curve, every shimmering fall, every bubbling ripple — it’s all continuously new. Even as the familiarity of the sight soothes, one must acknowledge that it is most definitely changing at all times. When a storm comes, the trees might be knocked over or the riverbed may be altered. We humans don’t take kindly to that abrupt, rude interruption. We decry the damages, we ache for the uprooted trees, we shake our fist at the new riverbed. It’s not where it is supposed to be. We hate that. We cry out for the past. When things were better. When things were normal and expected and familiar. Not now, when the landscape has been turned about. We pine for what once was, for the time when the surroundings were right, for the time when we were more content and secure.
But the reality is that nothing is ever the same. Nothing stays. Nothing is unaltered by the very passage of time. The water rushes through every second, always different. Such is life. We are ever out on the bow of a ship, leaning into the unknown, often full of hubris thinking we know what is next. “I’ve done this before…” No, you haven’t. None of us has done anything before that will go precisely the same way again. We have a habit of adding our own decor to memories, making them comfortable and complete when in reality the events of our past all had the bumps and the pain. But we survived tough times to retell them, garnished and bathed. We can create our own history, attaching love and devotion to those moments, to those particular rivulets or rapids, laying out our assertion that things were simply better before. Then we stand in judgment of today, wistful in our longing for what has gone on and what we can no longer have. We simplify our experiences, placing them in the good pile or the bad. When life’s eddies switch to another riverbed path, we rage against it and declare that things “will never be the same again,” a nonsense phrase if you think about it. Things are never the same. Never, ever. We are forever cutting our path forward, and it is never repeated.
We are therefore often beholden to our traditions. We arrange and plan and set up our experiences to either repeat a success or to at long last actually have success. There is incomparable comfort in reliving a tradition if all goes well. Sitting amongst one’s family on Christmas morning, for instance, calm and secure, with no where to go for hours, giddy with anticipation for a gift well-found to be opened by a beloved soul. Wearing our pajamas into the early afternoon, sharing a breakfast of bacon and eggs, lolling about with the sounds of one another’s voices telling stories, laughing, maybe even singing. For my river of life, this is one day of comfort that I do seek to repeat again and again, as best as we can. Those moments, those precious hours, hold the joy of life for me. There are others, of course. Everyone has their pockets of comfort. Sitting about a campfire on a chilly evening surrounded by family or dear friends; a hike into the woods deep and lush; a good game of poker or Bridge or chess with a fine companion; a well-cooked meal consumed in slow measure with those whose faces are dear, whose affections matter. We strive to create these moments to give our world-weary souls some respite. And good for us in making an effort. But we should never expect things to be the same. We will forever be let down if that is our only expectation, always leaving us with the wistful wish for times gone, setting us on a trajectory of frustration and sadness. The river ever runs. The river is never the same.
While that truth may be sobering, we do have the capacity to change our perspective. If change is ever-present, surely that means there is ever hope for improvement, for healing, for alterations that lead to even more comfort and satisfaction. Change very often means progress. Change can translate to enlightenment, understanding, growth. At this particular time in history, there is much fear and anguish over the perception that “history is being rewritten” by those who wish to shine a light on all aspects of times gone by. Pride, adoration for heroes, a sense of self and history are all threatened for some who hold up the past in one way, rigid and resolute. But if we are to grow, if we are to allow ourselves to feel empathy so that we can learn at least in part what past human history means to others, then we must grasp the truth that what transpired in years gone by may not be what we have always believed. What was true for some was certainly not true for others. What was glory for some was brutal cruelty for others. What was success for some was blinding defeat for others. On and on. There is never just one story, just one path, just one swirling portion of the river. There is a myriad of waves, ripples, tributaries, rocks, storms, and droughts, all shaping the river of life every moment in every way. We must try to see the entire waterway with all its bumps and all its rapids, not just what we have always learned is its path. We cannot point to the water and say, “This is how it always was and always will be,” because that is just not true. The more we cling to that with angry stubbornness, the more we will move apart from one another, with fury raging and cruelty given a pass. We cannot survive that.
Let’s seek our solace at the riverbank. Let’s ponder that ever-moving, ever-changing beauty and find in it joy and hope and a new perspective. As fast as that water moves, our lives are faster and far more brief. We have but one arc of time to walk this planet, with an inevitable end. In our short time here, we should try to see the entire river with all its nuances, and to accept that it is always plunging forward into the unknown, just as we are. In that we can find our peace and our comfort, understanding we are all part of a wonderfully mysterious odyssey, best shared through widened eyes and deeper empathy.