Meanders

Placid, reflective pools give way to destructive torrents, only to be transformed once again into something new, always evolving, always moving, ever toward some mysterious destination that can’t be known until arrival.

If the river is life, then we are the river, and along the way tributaries offer sustenance, and our strength redoubles. If we are but passengers, the river’s strength can toss and churn when unexpected horizons appear. When one with the river, we can use her strength to surmount the insurmountable. She reveals eddies when arms are weary. She calms when reflection is needed. And she plays! My does she play!

And, so, I am faced with a choice. I can sit on the shore among rooted willows and cottonwoods, watching life burble by with little splashes and patters. I cannot see where it is going, and I cannot know what challenges lay ahead. But to remain where I am is to watch it drift by.

An afternoon breeze flirts on my cheeks. The summer sun warms my shoulders. And butterflies gnaw at my stomach, moths chewing on the linen of my equanimity. Because it’s hard to face fear. It’s hard to go someplace unseen. It’s hard to commit to something over which you are powerless. But it is life. It is the river. And staying on the shore was never really an option in the first place.

So I give myself to the river’s evolving whims. I push my vessel away from rooted securities, into the current, and a peaceful smile spreads across my face.

We are one: me, the river, life.

© Greg Stahl