We Share the River

I love the Patrick Overton quote that I used in a couple of dad’s Caring Bridge posts last year. “When you come to the edge of all the light you have and must take a step into the darkness of the unknown, believe that one of two things will happen. Either there will be something solid for you to stand on—or you will be taught how to fly.” This description of faith is profound. On this first anniversary of dad’s death, I’d like to share another poem by Overton that seems like the perfect foundational description of my dad’s beliefs and how he lived life. It also seems particularly appropriate during this time in history.  The River Rivers don’t run straight. They wander, wind, turn on a whim – curve undeterred by rock or dirt or any previous pattern established some other spring. As rivers grow, a natural symmetry unfolds, relationships revealed as rapid currents flow, forge pathways based on shared geography. Two things in one place – essential balance of give and take in shared space. When not driven by spring-intensity, rivers do not rush, reveal no urgency to reach their self-determined destination, seem content to move in slow, summer, serpentine swirls, sculpting rainbow-misted waterscapes along the way like potters shape their clay. It was like this, in the beginning, before we came, before we took control, imposed our will and way, before we dammed its force, transformed the river’s natural course, upset the fragile harmony of nature and humanity, denying salmon their genetic destiny. We must learn to love the river, we have no choice, it is part of who we are, together – a shared geography for all of us, a common space shaped by common force. We must also learn the lessons rivers share, a simple wisdom found within their constant flow, relationships begun when water’s journey starts from source to sea and back again, the story each and every one of us must know – the truth that all the rivers tell: my river is your river – what happens to the one,      will, to the other, happen as well. My dad was all about community—which really meant people. How we need to work cooperatively. The domino effect of actions. That “my river is your river.” He would be so thrilled with how many beautiful things have come out of this Covid-19 crisis. He would be furious at other things.  It’s been A YEAR. And I can’t believe it. Isn’t the passage of time a funny thing? As a child, how slowly time went by as we waited for the school year to end. Then the three glorious months of summer sped by like a bullet train. The fact that dad died a year ago today is mind-boggling. A year, but I can still see him coming out of the other room when we’re at the cabin. A year, but I can hear him laugh and laugh at some silly joke. I think of his beloved books, most of which have gone to good homes to be loved by someone new. I know how much his absence affects some people—and I have no idea how it affects others. I do know we’re so happy he isn’t here to deal with today’s restrictions and how tough that would be on his care. But I pause as I write this because I know that many people are dealing with exactly that, and it is heartbreaking. Not to mention the weddings that couldn’t happen. Jobs lost. Funerals attended by no one. Babies quietly born without a welcoming party of friends and family.  “My river is your river.” The gift of time has perhaps sorted the grain from the chaff. Some of the “old ways” seem frivolous. Things thought terribly important have freefallen to the bottom of the list. But this time has also revealed what is important—those things we yearn for deeply and things for which we have newfound or rediscovered appreciation. Being able to visit mom and give her a big hug is at the top of our list. Meeting with friends and coworkers in person versus a virtual Zoom happy hour. Making our houses the best sanctuaries we can. Staying home to contain the virus. Wearing a mask to protect the weakest in our communities. Picking up the phone to talk to a friend. Remembering that we aren’t in this—or in life—alone. Thanks dad for believing, teaching and living this. We miss your presence here, but we see you in the faces that surround us.  “My river is your river.”