Day 84
rafts
There is an invisible river that carries me through my life. It is wide and the current is generally not too quick, though there are moments when it picks up and I have to hold on and hope for the best.
I spend a lot of time maintaining my raft, making sure that it is holding together, gathering floatables from here and there; plastic bottles, Styrofoam, whatever will keep me afloat. I have a little room on the raft where I keep my books and sleep.
I sometimes get in the water. For whatever reason, I am mostly too scared to do this. The water is not particularly cold, and while there are definitely dangers there, I can swim and am aware that if I make no sudden movements, I will not draw the wrong kind of attention. The raft feels safer though. In general, I think the prudent thing is to sit on the raft with just my feet in the water, dragging behind me.
One thing I have noticed is that the water, while deep and mysterious, makes me feel things that I just do not otherwise feel. My senses are heightened, not just by the fear, but by so many other things: the silky currents wrapping my limbs, the long river plants tickling my feet, the stones and boulders that I pass quickly—near misses. Sometimes I do not understand why I cling to the raft, why I cannot just be more fish-like.
I have spent a lot of my life talking about the river, arguing about whether we are all in the same river, or if there are many different rivers, whether or not the rivers are all headed to the same sea. I have debated with others the fine points of river travel, what you must have with you, what you must leave on the shore. Mostly, we compare each of rafts to the others, wondering whose is sturdiest, admiring craftsmanship, pitying the tiny floatation devices that keep some folks above water—just above water.
Lately though, I have noticed that there are some pretty good swimmers out there. They seem to have abandoned the whole concept of needing to float. They dive down and wriggle through the rocky places. I see them sometimes stretched out on their backs floating, eyes to the sky. They laugh a lot, blowing water out of their noses, and their fingers are permanent prunes. It looks terrifying, but their movements and faces look like liberation itself; as if fear and joy have found a way to coexist in their bodies.
I keep looking down at my raft, wondering if I really need all this protection, when it seems I could just swim. Also, I am tired of talking about the river. Its nature and course are not as interesting to me as how we are travelling and what gifts the journey has to offer. I do in fact want to be free.
Know what I’m saying?
