The River is a Pew

“To put your hands in a river is to feel the chords that bind the earth together.” (Barry Lopez)

“To put your hands in a river is to feel the chords that bind the earth together.” (Barry Lopez)

I came to the river to write about rivers. I came to the river on a Sunday. I greeted the river. Thanked her. Thanked her for the way that she is. I stepped into the river. She was cold, always colder than I expect her to be. I watched the river tumble toward me. Then past me. Then out of view. But also always with me and around and before me. I could feel the river even as I watched her go. I stepped out of the river. Some of the river came with me. Droplets.

The river is in my skin. I sit by her, look at her, but she is still with me. The river is always awake. I take a drink from the river, submerge my face, my hair, and now the river is inside of my skin.

I stepped back into the river and the flow swirled around my ankles. I stayed longer. My feet began to ache, my breathing clenched, but I didn’t move. I wanted the river to hurt all of me, to seep inside. The good kind of hurt where I am not yet numb. The good kind of hurt that awakens me, for she knows how to live awake. The river never sleeps and she has decorated her banks with wildflowers.

I look down. Two brown trout track my movement and bolt for the bank. I look at a tree in the river and the way the water both presses and holds him, dry at the roots, soaked on his side. I wonder if on too many days I am the tree, but I also long to lay in the river. In this life and the next.

The river is like a grave. I don’t believe this. Many in my faith tradition do. To go under the water, into the flow, is to die, so the river must be a grave. The holder of my head delivers the death. That can’t be right. The river is too alive.

The river is a pew. The river holds me as I worship. The river shows me the way of Creator. The way is a secret to many, and even to me. The river heals me. The bite marks that cover my legs no longer itch.

The river is my pew so I sit in her flow. Chilled across my thighs, my groin, I am losing breath, and a surge hits my belly. I gasp in the river that is my pew. The river is my pew and now I’m immersed, not sprinkled. Holy, with only my dog as a witness. I have baptized myself, covered in the river. The flow is in me and around me. I did not die. The river is not a grave.

The river is my pew, and she tells me, “Behold beloved, I am in you and you are in me. Let us flow together.” I close my eyes, and I can hear her whisper. The river says it again and again, “Behold beloved, I am in you and you are in me. Let us flow together. Behold beloved, I am in you and you are in me. Let us flow together. Behold beloved, I am in you and you are in me. Let us flow together…”

And I believe her.