I step into the river
and allow myself
to be carried aloft
along the current.
“This is where
the magic happens,”
I say out loud.
Or maybe it is the quickening
of an angel’s wings
in my belly.
I sink into the waters,
their swirling in sync
with the rhythm
of my internal yearning,
the grip of effort
in my shoulders
yielding to their soft touch.
There is buoyancy now.
I move, I flow, I travel.
I traverse great distances
in a small space
with little resistance.
The rocks and twigs
and river twists
soften and bend themselves
to conform to my form.
They beckon and welcome
and become one with me.
They judge not,
smile much.
This is not how it used to be
with me, or how it still often is, I
must admit. I feel the ache
of a thousand years
of vigilant striving,
my arms readied to meet
the mighty waters with fight
and flight, to push
against their current,
to battle them and myself
back into submission
lest the truth be trusted.
Remembering,
a tear traces down my face
into the hushing waters
that rise to meet my grief
with grace.
I see others now on the bank.
They reach and screech
and call to me, frantic
at my surrender,
at the slack relaxation
of my defense.
Their bodies shake with rage
and urgency and terrible
unending restlessness.
Their restlessness resonates
like a bell in my belly
until it comes to rest with me
in the river’s waves.
We, the waters and I,
we do not waver.
We greet their turbulence
with fierce love
and let it wash through us.
We purify and airify and liquefy
and restore it to those on the shore,
who now, like little children,
are seen throwing off shoes
and shirts and cares to the wind,
wading and bantering
into the river’s muddy edge
to join us.
This is where the magic happens.
Photo by Ian Turnell at Pexels
