“River carry me/Your child I’ll always be/River carry me/Down to the sea.”
I live in mountain country, in what is properly called the Interior Wet Belt of British Columbia. Wet for sure right now. Huge silvery-green twilights with lightning and wild roses, a crazy wet lushness pouring out oxygen and fragrance, everything in flower. At night the creeks, full of the roar of melting snow coming down from the alpine, sound like freight trains, heading for the Columbia River and then for the sea. It’s a wild hullabaloo of thaw and moving water and rain curtains and rainbows stitched with the silver calls of robins.
I find it bringing me to a time of letting go. Of what, I’m not entirely sure. A couple of nights ago I dreamed there was a mountain I had to come down from. The old man at the top (interesting, eh, ‘the old man at the top’) told me I’d have to let go and slide down. There was a long run of smooth rock, curving slightly to one side, and I was a bit worried that I’d bump into things. But I didn’t. I came down in a nice fast easy arc.
I’m finding this happening in little ways all over the place. It makes this blog difficult to write this evening. It has generally been a reflection of a knot, something I’m struggling to integrate, bite through, or get around. There’s nothing like that right now.
It can be a tricky place for sure, and there’s a poorly guarded border between it and depression, between letting go and giving up. It’s worth a shot, though. I’ve acted by my will so much in my life that I’ve worn out my will centre; in another idiom you might say I’ve damaged my hara. Maybe, in fact, saying “it’s worth a shot” already puts too much emphasis on my doing something. Can one try not to try?
As I’m feeling all this happen, I’m also feeling the water get very deep. My feet don’t touch bottom any more. I’m not feeling permitted to stand, get my bearings, get some perspective. Everything’s rushing down to the sea, and I guess I must be, too.