thestoryoftheriver

How could drops of water

know themselves to be a river?

Yet the river flows on.

Antuan de Sent Exupery

That day the river was moving especially slowly. As if it wanted to linger along the way to have a good look at everything it flowed by: the trees that bent their branches to its waters, some grasses rustling in the wind, reeds that rocked in unison with the grass, rare, but amazingly beautiful flowers that emerged among the greenery. It wanted to listen to the sounds that were coming from the brushwood. In the bushes daily life went on: a little bird continually fluttered out probably in search of food and, after finding something edible, disappeared into the foliage, most likely to deliver the catch to the nestlings. The songs of the frogs, the chirr and hum of the insects became louder, then quieter, creating a symphony nobody has ever yet written. All this produced an effect of complete harmony and concord. Everything was somehow very calm and just right.

The river suddenly realized at that moment that it was also part of this harmony. It perceived itself not as a certain quantity of water flowing by, but something wholesome that had its source and its future confluence with the Sea, to which it strove its entire life. After some reflection it recalled its earlier times when it was a tiny spring confidently welling out from the earth, radiating the freshness and sparkle of a young being, very pure, clear and full of dreams about a bigger life.

At that time everything around it seemed huge and magnificent, and even if there was something unattractive it did not matter much then because there was nothing to compare it with. Only later, after seeing other places, cities and counties did the river develop this high sense of beauty, which perhaps had become irreversible. So it was hard not to notice some ugly things or take them as normal and tolerable. This enormous thirst for Beauty and Harmony become one of its basic needs, no matter what it was. Sometimes it had to flow past some disgusting banks with dumps and vile waste pipes, past dried up trees and untidy beaches where some unpleasant noisy men and women drank everything but water and argued about things incomprehensible. But who can change where a river goes? One has to just flow and observe.

In some places those noisy men and women raised obstacles on its way making it produce energy for them. They could not live using only wax candles anymore, they needed more light to be able to drink and shout in their houses at evenings. The river overflowed, covering everything that used to be green and alive in deep water. This terribly angered it because it was only allowed to run through some strange structures with propellers inside them. It was painful, difficult and very uncomfortable. It started showing strain and tension. The river was simply used by the others and quite insolently. With time at downstream it became quieter a little and seemed to forget about the dams completely. Well, it thought, at least I warmed someone up in the winter and rotated their fans in the heat. It means I was useful.

Now, far from all those industrial affairs, the river wanted to be just water, which washes, which cleans and refreshes, which gives life to all living, for it is well known that almost no one can manage without moisture. It desired to give an inspiration to poets and artists who used their pens and brushes to describe how splendidly its waters were framed by majestic forests, cities and mountain peaks. It dreamed of helping philosophers to obtain wisdom while looking at its streams. It wished to bring joy to children when on a hot day they come to splash in the shallow waters at the low shores, to teach them how to swim by resisting its force or to let them feel how light they can be floating on its surface as it was a cloud. Water can teach you a lot.

The river was happy to see flowers and edible plants which grew at those spots where gardeners poured its water. It was glad to wash people’s faces in the morning, to be their food and their hot tea. At this point it knew its mission perfectly. Water is water. And water is life. It knew its duty well.

It also sensed that sooner or later its encounter with the Sea would occur. The river remembered it from its previous life. It happened before, and not only once. But every time, the memory was erased of those circumstances. It only remembered that the Sea would happen and this was going to be something special.

It also recalled how it could fall on the dry fields as a long-expected rain, and sprouts of grains would appear from the ground later on. Sometimes it was just a cloud and blew across the sky, above smiling and squinting children that looked up. It would take the shape of a large camel or a small town or a giant that opened his mouth wide as if he was surprised at being so big and not falling down. Nothing but a dream it is! Yes, even rivers have dreams…

© Tatiana Harrison 2004.

(c) Tatiana Harrison 2007. (translation)