Becoming the River
For those who read my Post with a poem - Shaman - last week, Meg, my remarkable wife and life companion, after several days of quiet reflection folded up her grief the way you fold a familiar set of clothes - storing them away - not forgotten or denied but put aside for another day. The colours are sombre, but the fabric was made with love. You cannot cast them away without throwing part of yourself away too…
It was Saturday - the second last day of the Summer School Holidays. Another wave of fierce Australian heat was forecast and a long planned event was finally coming to pass.
We left early, driving West ahead of the Sun, out of our old home city where we have been staying recently and out onto the back roads, leading to quiet country towns and villages and heading on beyond for a place we know well, where the the last road ends at the edge of a deep rainforest, in a narrow valley of the inland mountains, with a cold clear river as a vein of water running through.
This is a place my parents loved - adored - and brought me to, with my siblings, many times. The ashes of our parents lie together now, on a remote mountain peak high above the headwaters.
For the effort - and joy - of a walk on shadowed paths amongst hauntingly gorgeous trees and dense thickets of vines the reward for coming here is a series of waterfalls, cataracts and deep crystalline pools tinged yellow green by the rainforest filtered light.
At one bend, the water has carved a notch through a belt of solid grey granite with a gently sloping crest overhung by trees. It is the perfect place to rest and eat, and also to swim - best of all by leaping from the rock and plummeting into the swirling waters below.
Meg and I have brought our own children here, when young, and now our two eldest Grandchildren are old enough too, for the walk, and the water.
So, after mourning her Son, for Meg this was the Yang to that Yin. It was not easy - she has a grindingly painful hip joint and a torn shoulder ligament, but she walked the whole way in, over several kilometres, with her left arm in a sling and with my arm for balance on the narrow and uneven track where required. Our Daughter and her family charged ahead while we walked slowly, at our own pace, listening to the forest and feeling the 40 degree C heat (102 degrees F) seeping down through the dense canopy of leaves.
Eventually, with a fall or two, we made it to the rock. Meg just rested and watched, which was the agreed plan, while our Son in Law and Grandson took the big jump.
Then me.
Air,
Rush,
Splash….
The drop is about 5 metres - 16 feet - so when you hit you go deep, then rise and rise and rise eyes open, through coruscating bubbles of light…
Surfacing, lying back in the water, laughing at the cold deliciousness and looking up to see Meg high above, now standing at the very edge - her good arm bracing the injured one tight against her chest.
Everyone around her saying “No!” - but she looks down at me and smiles, lifting her chin for confirmation. I swim to the edge of the impact zone and hold out my hand.
She
Jumps
Flys
Submerges in spray
Then rises from the depths, into my circling arms.
Becoming the River
What is a river, ever?
It is more than the water.
It is the stone weathered away.
It is the rock remaining, the volume
of space opening - containing all time.
The mountain above is
just what the patient
lapping water
leaves till
later.
The river,
always flowing
is the long story,
a book of which we
read one word, barely.
I think of my Father, my Mother -
their life together - itself
part of a river,
travelling
on.
Me
their Son,
brought to this river
when I was young, into
the forest, out of the morning….
Years later returned with my children, rainforest
walking, waterfall leaping, dark
currents heart clutching,
memory seeding
growing.
Now
children
grandchildren
take flight - all of us
falling, sun glazed, glittering,
briefly shining - just self aware water playing,
becoming the river, writing this story, emitting light.
Wonderful writing and a beautiful journey you took me on. The Tao of your experience and the flow you must of been in writing this shows. We don’t write often enough about this flow.
beautiful balancing out.