Take Me to the River
The current current
I forgot how much I love a river. In the prairies of Illinois where I spent my childhood, the only river that ran through it was a muddy one we’d canoe once a year alongside groups bungeed to giant coolers of beer—not the most awe-inspiring sight. But my parents love a river, and any time we were on vacation, they found mountain streams for hikes and picnics, a core ritual of those weeks away.
Earlier this summer, I met some of my family in the foothills of the Cascades to celebrate my parents’ wedding anniversary. I did very little research before the trip, which is rare for me, but they were doing the planning, and sometimes I love showing up and being surprised. This time, it was the scale of the mountains and the absurd amount of green that surprised me. I think I live in green, but every time I’m in the Pacific Northwest, it’s as if I’ve never seen the color before.
Everywhere we went, a glorious river! Papa Keith hit the accommodations out of the park, and our rental had water right outside the back door. We spent as much time as possible sitting by it, and I convinced my mom and brother-in-law to spend a rainy afternoon painting it with me.
In the next days, I fell in love with the West all over again. All that time by turquoise waters can make anyone wax poetic, and as I hiked, a question from my spiritual director bobbed up. In our last session, we’d meandered onto what I was leaving behind during this season, and she asked, “What contains you now, Jackie?” Although some people hate this type of question, it’s the kind of image-based contemplation my brain loves. As I sat with it, a picture of water came to mind—something large, expansive, untethered. I seemed to be floating, moving in something bigger than me, not knowing exactly where I was going. After I babbled about this for some time, she offered, “Maybe it’s a current?”
“Ohhhh…a current,” I nodded. “Well, that’s not exactly comforting. It feels unknown and not much of a container at all. What do I do with that?”
“See where it takes you,” she smiled.
It didn’t take me much of anywhere until one hike in Washington when I gasped and pointed at the flowing water along the trail. “A current!” I could imagine a passerby patting my head, nodding, "Yep, that’s a current. Big word, buddy! What else do you see? Pine tree? Muddy dirt? Blue, blue sky?” I was not to be dissuaded from my moment of enlightenment, juvenile as it be. I mused, “Maybe it is a river, not an ocean? Is that the current? Isn’t there a song about listening to the river?”
I wondered if this river had anything to say.
After some time, this bubbled up—“The current is an adventure. You can choose to get into it and go along for the ride, but you can’t control the river. You can’t determine exactly where it goes, you don’t know if there are rapids just around the bend, or if you are about to be launched over an abyss. There is movement, there is motion, and the banks hold you. But you can’t control the river.”
Still a little abstract, this ol’ metaphor. As I watched the rushing stream, I had more questions than conclusions. What is the current? What are the banks? What have I been trying to control? The message was clear as the mud that squished underfoot, elements of both surrender and agency. Surrender and agency? Aren’t they in tension? That can’t be right.
And yet, everywhere I turn, another wise person is banging on about paradox, how maturity means simultaneously holding complex emotions and seemingly contrary concepts. Paradox, shmaradox. I would like something simpler, thank you very much.
“See where it takes you,” I remembered.
When I got back from the trip, I did a little word-nerding and looked up current. The variety of definitions reminded me how much compassion I have for anyone trying to learn the English language. Besides currents of water and electrical currents, there was this:
Current, as in current events—“Belonging to the present time; happening or being used or done now.”
Belonging to the present time. Well, that is beautiful. Maybe that is the invitation.
Life is full of moments that require much different presence. In the weeks since the river, I’ve been on a quiet farm in the middle of America, and in a few days, I’ll fly to the Middle East. It’s hard to imagine more contrary locations, and it’s a lot to hold both places. The world feels precarious and unpredictable, a river of anxiety and rage swirling through, attempting to lure us in and swallow us whole. It is difficult to not get swept into those frenzied waters, especially because there is so much I don’t know about the future, and I can’t see downstream.
In the midst of all the uncertainty, I’ve been trying on the questions, “What is for this present time—is there an action to be taken or something to let go?” Most of all, “How do I belong here, now, with these people, in this moment?” Maybe it’s being back home, but I’m reminded of how fast it all goes, that we only get one shot at each day, and I don’t want to miss it.
In all the chaos, I’ve found calm and quiet in this practice, moments of belonging to this present time. While I’m still not exactly sure where the river is going, I sense once again that something much bigger is carrying me, something I do not control.
I suppose all I can do is see where it takes me.
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Playlist! What’s your favorite river? I’ll also take songs about rivers to make a playlist.
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Not sure what it says about me but I immediately time-traveled to 11 year-old me and the song “Just Around the Riverbend” from the 1995 Pocahontas soundtrack. It’s a good one. Also, can we plan a river getaway together soon?
River by Leon Bridges is a good one.