We exist in a world of air-conditioned bubbles of metal and glass, computer-generated graphics, recorded sound, virtual reality and flash-frozen food.
A river that runs its course between high volcanic cliffs under a blazing sun or a vast expanse of stars and planets is none of that. It flows. Rushing and tumbling, thundering or lapping, it always flows.
You ride the river, you swim in it, you sit by it, you hear it, feel it, see it. And it always flows. Its energy is constant and abiding. It makes allowance for your presence and moves on. And after you have left it, you continue to feel it, sense it and be moved by it. Your dreams change, your balance changes. It has a pulse that drives your own.
Off the raft, on shore, kitchen in place, we shook out our chairs from their sacks and sat and stared at the river for the rest of the day. We moved from here to there on the river bank and back again, but we always heard the water in all its range of voices, and we never tired of staring at it, listening to it. To say it was magic is too simple. It captured our attention from a time long before we came to its banks and stayed with us long afterwards. It was, above all else, powerful and demanded respect. The river was always flowing under us or past us, around us.
Soon enough, we were sleepy and went to our tents and sleeping bags, slept like rocks on the shore. The whole night, constantly, the river flowed. We were soothed like babies by the shush and gurgle of water against rock and sand all night long. We had found our place in the universe, were made to feel small and knew it was right and good. An infinity of stars and a singing river will do that to you.
(To be continued)
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