I spent some time down at the Chattahoochee River recently, a bit of an afterthought — or bonus, actually, to a lovely afternoon.
When I was a kid, we’d go on family trips to the local lakes in Georgia. Every once in a while, we’d go to the Chattahoochee River, too. The lakes were ok, but it was the river that drew me. In fact, anything with moving water called to me. I played in plenty of creeks and small streams, too, but I never looked for the little creatures that lived there. Instead, I liked to watch the flow of the water, whether it was moving past rocks or tree debris, or my ankles. The thing was to stand in the water and watch it go down river, splashing wildly against big obstacles or finding the flow around them.
I’ve often written about how I love a good storm on the ocean (if I can enjoy it from shore!), so it’s clear to me the draw is in the movement. I didn’t make a connection to the meaningful symbolism of such an activity until now. Maybe I just wasn’t in the frame of mind until now.
Rivers move. They are alive. And they keep moving.
The picture I took on my recent visit to the ‘hooch captures where I am right now — moving in a new direction. The water flows steadily, always moving, always bringing different things along, flowing past small obstacles, fighting — sometime struggling past larger obstacles.
The bend in the river obstructs the view of what’s ahead, but that’s the mystery of it. The peaceful flow inspires peace, not fear.