Ashore the River

I stand in the middle of a rushing, raging river.

The wind ravages my wild hair, and blusters violently against my nostrils.

The water grips my shoulders, my neck, and my chin.

The trees surround me to the left and to the right.

The birds are singing, in the trees, far beyond my sight and reach.

Their songs are useless to my eyes; I cannot see the singers.

I am growing weary.

I am tempted to surrender to the river.

The river wants to carry me away.

But the riverbed grips my feet.

My feet grip my body, and my body grips my mind and heart.

My mind and heart grip the shores, and the shores grip the trees that grip the birds. 

The birds grip their beautiful songs.

Their songs grip my ears. 

My ears grip my mind and my heart.

So the riverbed passes each foot of mine forward, from fist of mud and water to fist of mud and water, until finally, mud and water let go, and the dry ground takes hold of my feet.

The riverbed passes my feet into the grips of the dry ground.

The dry ground passes my feet into the trees, and the trees surrender me to the birds. 

The birds take grip of my eyes, and pass my eyes to their songs, which have already gripped my mind and my heart.

But their songs spoke to me, saying, "you do not belong to us."

"You do not belong to the river, the riverbed, the dry ground, or even the trees."

"You belong to yourself. Go sit with yourself."

The birds looked back to the river.

The river's song gripped my ears, and said, "let my voice carry you, not my body."

"Surrender to the dry ground, and my voice."

So the river's song carried me to the dry ground at the edge of the river.

I sat down on the ground, and let the river grip my eyes.

Then the river showed me something.

It showed me how it passes by.

No matter how turbulent or calm the river may be, the river never stays.

The river continuously passes on.