Words from Pep The River by James “Pep” Washburn

Words from Pep

The River by James “Pep” Washburn

The sky opened and for days Mother Earth drank in the soothing rain. Showers from heaven refreshed the spirit of every plant, washed away the dust, purified the air. Humus, over saturated, could hold no more and shed the excess. I had portaged my canoe around the falls, overland to this spot. Standing under a hemlock, I eavesdropped on the sound of rivulets trickling downhill into the river steadily increasing its flow. What once lazily spilled along the gentle slope meandering toward the great sea far away, was now hastening swiftly toward its resting place. The rushing torrent swelled and overcame all resistance. The flow, unstoppable. In our youth we swim upstream, do battle with the tides and win. The River of Time spills out slowly before us. When floods swell, we confidently fight the surge and pretend to conquer their waves behind the illusion of our immortality. Yet, the river flows on. Now and then, floating along were plants and shrubs torn from their hold on life. Catching the bank or a rock they momentarily resisted the onward rush. This metaphor before me, this River of Life and Time, spoke to me loud and clear. I am being carried with increasing speed and I cannot resist its flow. My life, like yours and all our relations is being carried inescapably to the great sea. The life I live rides this fast river like all life before and all to come. As I stood there on the bank my eagerness to run this water flooded my heart with passion. An inner zeal to fully experience my privilege of existence eclipsed my hesitancy. What lies downstream can only be known by shooting the rapids, banging the hull here and there, taking on some water. I kneeled on the ribs and launched into the current ready for the ride. Skirting a standing wave I slipped into the channel yielding myself to what was to come.  A sharp pivot around a ledge brought me into a sudden pitch and my speed increased down the chute. Nearly spilling, I pulled a hard draw stroke to the left and took the curler at the bottom over the bow. A hundred more meters and I slid into an eddy to rest, bail water and savor my journey thus far. Our voyage is a sacred adventure molding the soul. I often wonder at the excitement and danger, the joy and pain. Let us not hesitate on our holy voyage. What distance remains to the shore of the great sea I do not know, for my river, like yours, has no charts. www.theteacherwithin.com