There is a constant truth in these waters. Their direction and existence an age-old story told whether one or many or none listens. It’s a story of quiet witness and powerful protest. A record of the messy but perfect balance of sustenance and survival.
In big water we are lost. Humbled and reminded of our frailties. Our fleeting existence. Our will difficult to impose, though we still try. But in small water we see ourselves. And therein lies the truth. We find ourselves where we find these
rivers and streams. Nestled in the canyon belly or mountainside draw, spilling from pool to bouldered pool. Shadowed, cold and framed by banks of heavy-green rhododendron or tangled alder. Meandering in wide arcs through the prairie’s yawning miles. Arteries
running with defiant purpose, reflecting the noise and hard angles of the city. We pack light when we go. Leave contingencies in the garage, barn or basement. Leave our will and need to impose. Leave the things we carry that we hide from others.
Live closer to the bone. Maybe it’s because we know what works. Maybe it’s because we understand just how much will be forgiven and everything beyond that is unnecessary weight. Here we know we’ll be given just enough.