In this final instalment of the first cycle of six visits to River, I contemplate the role of water as communicator and consider: how do we reciprocate when so much is given so freely?
I honestly did not think I was going to go again. I have been swimming twice in River this week, the stretch of River known as Till. It was heavenly to swim upstream and float down, buoyant in the water, moving at river’s pace, the sun bouncing sparkles off the water’s surface that up close, had a skin adorned with seeds, dust, and tiny feathers. All of life was here amid time suspended. The children splashed and shouted as they swam and all I could do was indulge in the few brief moments of silence afforded by the blanket cover of water on my ears when I relaxed and lay fully back. Being immersed in River felt restorative on many levels, but it was not an act of intentional, communicative engagement which is best experienced alone I am learning.
Sitting at my desk later I felt a heaviness around me. Was it mine, my emotional body? Or was it the weather, the impending storm? The indecision spread. Should I visit river again? Perhaps I could meditate with river-in-a-bottle in the labyrinth? Musing as I attended to more mundane but still necessary matters, I came across Peter’s email with his latest report. At least I can read and respond to him I thought.
I smiled as I began reading; the sluggish energy he complained of echoed my own. But then his words took a turn. He seemed disconnected, separated from passersby who did not respond to his polite “Good Morning”, eventually even doubting whether he was qualified to communicate with River.
His ails are soothed however, by the ritualistic offering of water from his orchard to River, in the beauty that is created in the act of giving and witnessing. Ending with a promise of return, he closes with a nod towards the next intentional act of engaging with River. His behaviour and corresponding reflections and actions speak of a panpsychic worldview of communicative engagement with the whole.
A panpsychic worldview understands that the separation we believe exists between inner and outer worlds is only partial, raising metaphysical questions concerning the source of our impulses, thoughts, feelings, and reflections. Such questions acknowledge a tension between the desire for authenticity and the potential for this to transpose into narcissism. How do I know if my thoughts and feelings are genuinely mine? Perhaps I never can because I am inside them as much as they are inside me. Yet in order to be authentic to my own worldview, all I can do is act with total surety, total belief in the ability of those actions to be received. A panpsychist must work on the knife-edge of paradox – we need to both believe and doubt ourselves. Momentary relapses into anxiety seem assured.
Peter’s report touches me deeply. I see how in offering water from is orchard he has relayed essential information back to River. I wonder if he thought about the energy in the car being transmitted to the water he was carrying as he drove? I wondered how he perceived his ritual, when he believed it began and ended… When did he collect the water? Has he meditated with it? I wondered even if the vibrations Peter was picking up on might in fact be coming from the water he was transporting, as if the orchard water’s experience reflected the human world that Peter inhabited that was also its world? I wondered if the nature in Peter’s orchard felt violated in some way being totally surrounded by urban life? I wondered what information the orchard water was going to relay to River, and if Peter had intentionally added to that energy before releasing the water into River? I wondered how far his thoughts extended into each deliberate act of the ritual, what is the picture he has of himself in this role? And of course, in asking all these questions of Peter I realised I was also asking them of myself.
Peter’s report stirs many thoughts. It also makes me realise I am being selfish. Peter’s offering is showing River the truth. The human world is a world of violence, where rules, the rules of cyclical, regenerative nature, of natural Law, are being ignored. Peter’s observations connect the river’s sluggishness with the intervention in its flow inflicted by humans; he suspects this lifelessness may correlate with his own ability to feel River’s vitality. Peter’s reflections bring to mind animals I have seen in zoos, their eyes deadened by the restrictions, control, and failure of humans to recognise what is vital to their personhoods. Perhaps River feels the same. I feel a sudden responsibility to respond. I decide to perform a healing ritual. I will take back the river-in-a-bottle I have, and I will also take some ocean water I have in a bottle on my altar. Both of these bodies of water have been carried by me in labyrinth walks. I check the weather. I have maybe an hour, an hour and a half before the rain will come. I pack up a bag with the bottles. I take my notebook, but I doubt that I will write. Today is not for a communicative meditation, it is for giving back in ritualistic offering. Ten minutes later, I am turning off the road by the small track that leads down to the water’s edge.
I leave the car and walk towards the path, stopping to bow at the place where the path turns down the slope to River. A sudden high-pitched whine inside my head surprises me, although unexpected as it is, it is not the first time. I close my eyes and wait until it subsides. I open them and notice how heavy the air seems. Birdsong floats from the treetops. I close my eyes again and wait. The sun appears from behind a cloud, warming my eyelids. A breeze ruffles the leaves; is it a welcome, a gesture? Would it be rude to ignore it, to brush it off as nothing? I decide it is something as opposed to nothing, and proceed down the path slowly, greeting the various bushes and grasses, trees and flowers with nods, smiles, noises of appreciation, love. I feel forms popping out – notice me! Notice me! And so I do, and the world seems to come even more alive.
Down beside River, I greet the three large rocks squatting by the edge and lay out the bottles of water in preparation for the ritual. I decided on three in the end: river-returning-to-itself; ocean-as-message; water-from-home. I stand on one of the rocks and opening my arms wide, say something like this:
Greetings to the One and the Many. Thank you for sustaining life. I offer gifts to River and to all. Gifts of love and information from the human world.
I pause, is it my imagination or does the wind blow stronger? Do the reeds rustle in approval? Has River heard? I have a thought that if I wish to extend the offering as widely as possible, I should sing. I should not assume the One and the Many understand my words. And so I sing out the little mantra I use, turning to bring every plant to my awareness, every tree, every rock, every creature and being… I spin on the rock as I chant and the world wobbles and vibrates as it does. When I stop, I walk down to the water’s edge and say:
The first gift is returning River to itself. Thank you for your companionship during these days. I return you with love. May you know the world for yourself. May you know me as one who loves you and may I know myself as you. And I pour the water into River.
I pick up the second bottle and say in loud voice over the water:
The second gift is the ocean, our mother, the source of all life, of yours and mine. She brings healing from the labyrinth and from her mighty depths.
And I pour the water into River before picking up the final bottle.
The third gift is from my home, your neighbour, we-who-dwell-in-this-place-with-you. We offer this water with our humble gratitude, for keeping us alive. We offer it with love for your healing.
And I pour the water in.
I walk back to the large rock and stand on it, looking all around; up and down the length of the river, at the treetops behind me and the dark hills in front. I sing out my mantra again to close the ceremony. Saying thank you to the reeds, rushes, and rocks before leaving, I feel a pull, feel river calling. I take out the small glass bottle and scoop to refill it, saying thank you for this parting gift.
Turning to leave, I stop and watch low, dark clouds approach the hills beyond River. I can almost see the line where the weather changes as the clouds roll slowly towards me. The breeze rustles, and this time it feels cooler, a subtle shift. I close my eyes and feel gratitude for being alive; for the air, the water, and the experience of living, simultaneously simple, complex, and mystifying… My father comes into my mind, and I call out a thank you, as if my words could reach him somehow. It starts to rain, and I start to cry. Tears mingle with rain, and I feel connected and wholly within the cycle of water, of life. I taste the rain and laugh and feel so grateful for it all. I suddenly realise how wet I am getting, so I pick up my bag, shout out a thank you, take one last loving look over my shoulder, and head back to the car.
Your loveliest and most powerful account I read. So meaningful to me, as i spend days trying to understand how to communicate with the clear, heavenly sea i am surrounded by, being on an island. I know it and adore it though it can be scary and too strong.
I thought of experiments on water’s memory and i guess just my presence in the sea is a means of communication, by the changes the water actually seems to be recording. I try vibrations by chanting, imagining tiny wavelets will spread around my body.
Still i think i am getting nowhere, and that only surrendering to belonging shortly to this immense water being makes sense.
I think rivers have something resembling personality that makes it easier to relate. Their flowing can be similar to ours. Their banks make then reasonably limited so that a relationship appears possible. This sea is almost infinite, instead, looking so much like the sky over it, over us.
In a novel by Alessandro Baricco, a pianist who lived all his life on a cruiser, explains why he would never get off it, saying that he could only play music on a finite keyboard, and the land he saw beyond the port instead seemed infinite: only God can play music on an infinite keyboard.
This sea gives me this impression at this time of my life and I look forward, I must say, to go visit a river, or a sea that I can distance myself from, unlike this one. I will then follow your beautiful routine, much richer than mine. ❤️