I spent Sunday on the river with Raimee. It was the kind of afternoon I’ve been longing for for weeks, but Mother Nature’s incessant tears have made it impossible to do safely in our little corner of North Carolina. But on this day, the sunshine spoke to our spirits, and we felt called by the herons and the turtle multitudes to come out, drop our paddle boards into the high waters, and immerse ourselves in the kind of church that one can only truly experience when surrounded by calm and quiet currents that pull you out of one world and into another more spacious and spiritual moment in time.
Raimee is such a perfect floating companion; appreciating the serenity and taking in the beauty and the stillness without feeling a need to narrate our shared silence. He is able to sit with me and lean in to the hug of the southern summer heat.
As we move slowly down stream, we bear witness to the exposed and ragged edges of the riverbanks, the fallen trees that make a fringe along the water’s edge, the neighbors’ boat docks that are just barely above the surface of the Haw; we see the upheaval that is left in the wake of Mother Nature’s weeping. We take it in, we breathe, we move along slowly. The metaphor is not lost on me… our world is in a perpetual cycle of build, breakdown, and rebuild. Even in these earliest days following the flood, I can close my eyes and hear the earth singing its songs of resilience and renewal. Raimee and I embrace a peacefulness so needed by our sad and weary hearts, and it feels like a small step towards restoration.
This has been a hard summer. But, as often happens when life is heavy and joy feels fragile, there comes a tiny ray of light that makes its path through the darkness and lifts the shadows just enough to illuminate a bit of the lovely details that show up unexpectedly in a song, a poem, a phone call, or a thoughtful gesture; enough to remind me that in it all is goodness, and moving through a season of grief and loss is just a part of being alive. Reclaiming balance takes time.
It certainly helps to have a river, and a Raimee, to push the days forward, demonstrate healing, and redirect my attention to a Universe that says "Despite it all, Rebecca, there is ice cream, and kittens, and stars, and dancing, there are good books, long walks, deep sleeps, hot coffee, garden tomatoes, Christmas carols, art projects, autumn fires, hula hoops and molasses taffy. And yes, somewhere down the road, there is also joy.”
Wherever you are on your journey on this day, I hope that joy, or at least the prospect of joy, will find its way to you.
