All of a sudden I become aware of the proximity, the nearness, of the
falls up ahead. Until now there has been only the quiet meandering of
the river, but now I hear the thunder. I go close and experience the
power and awe, and then, as I must, I depart. I go up a bend, around a
corner, and the waterfall seems no more. Yet it is.
So it is, as
we tread this mortal coil. A life lived on a river scattered with few
waterfalls, or many. Once survived, often forgotten, or labeled as a
result of stress or some other fabrication. Yet the waterfalls exist. I
have seen them, heard them, lived them and I can attest to them. They
are dangerous. The are wild. Draw near to it and experience life. A
waterfall is a moment, an invitation, a life altering experience. What
is it in us that would rather forget and once more drift along in a
feigned ignorance of denial?
For me it is fear. I suspect that answer is similar for most. The thing
about being on a river is that you could get wet. The thing about
living is that you could get hurt. Yet to live is to risk the rapids,
and I’ve spent too long fighting against the current trying to stay
still.
Now I’m going to see what happens if I head downstream. I don’t know
but it feels right. Instead of fighting against the river, it’s time to
work with it, and together we’ll face what comes.
Now a conundrum remains. How do you describe a waterfall to someone who’s seen one, yet denies it’s very existence?