To trace the history of a river or a
raindrop . . . is also to trace the history of the soul, the history of
the mind descending and arising in the body. In both, we constantly seek
and stumble upon divinity, which like feeding the lake, and the spring
becoming a waterfall, feeds, spills, falls, and feeds itself all over
again.
— (Gretel Ehrlich, Islands, The Universe, Home)
This week's word comes to us through the good offices of the Middle English and Anglo-Norman rivere and the Vulgar Latin riparia, thence the proper Latin riparius and ripa
all meaning "of a bank" or simply "bank". The word's closest kin is the
adjective riparian, and we use it to describe the fertile ground along
waterways and those who live in such places. To be called riparian is a
fine old thing.
From the quiet coves and fields of their beginning places to the greater rivers and lakes where they end their
journeys, a thousand and one little rivers in the Lanark highlands lift
their voices, whispering, murmuring, cooing, laughing, singing, occasionally
roaring. At sunset or in cool morning light, reflections of sky and
clouds and trees
fill every pool and eddy. After dark, the moon pours its light over
everything and she seems as much a dweller in the quiet waters as she is in
the sky above.
Solitary voices, choruses and concertos, there is attentive presence and
connection in every note, and what a metaphor for life and journeying!
If I could have named myself, the name would probably have been
"River". As it
happens, the youngest member of the family now wears the name, and I
would like to be around to explore shallows, puddles and
tide pools with her in a few years.
Wherever we land up living out
our days, we are never far from rivers of one sort or another,
and they are fine motifs for wandering. If we are lucky, we will know many rivers in our lives, learning their language and cadence, tracing
the patterns of their ebbing and flowing, committing their rumbling
chants and fluid harmonies to fragile memory — the canticles of earth's rivers are ancient stories, and they are the music of our journey.
A peaceful river and a golden summer full moon, what more can one ask for?
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