I walk over the old stone bridge, my ears full of the songs of blackbirds and robins, the rippling of water running over pebbles, and the distant cry of a cockerel. The sun is up but still low, a thin mist hovers delicately over the fields. Once across the bridge, the metal kissgate is to my left; it groans and squeaks as I pass through, a sound that has marked the beginning of my visit to River over these many years, which wakens me to sacred space, in the same manner as does the resonant ringing of a meditation bell on a retreat. “All my relations.”
I repeat my mantra – Walking the Green Earth – as I cross the field, disturbing two crows who have settled on the footpath. About halfway across, I pause, remembering that just half an hour ago I was lying in bed on awakening, a little grumpy, resisting the call to get up. Yet now in the freshness of the air around me and the summer sun shining a low light across the field, glinting through the dewdrops hanging on the grass, I feel actively happy. Except, that is, for the two poor old sentinel ash trees that are succumbing to dieback, spreading near-naked branches with just a scattering of leaves. They are really struggling.
I feel a simple joy in being here again. Somehow, place is imprinted on me.
I walk through the long, wet grass to my spot – I should have worn waterproofs trousers. The Frome to my left and Avon to my right meet at the end of this narrow peninsula in a wide pool. I bow and greet Rivers, announcing my arrival. Immediately, I see Otter swimming up the far bank, underneath the big willow tree – a small brown head leaving behind a v-shaped stream of waves. Ki disappears, leaving scarcely a trace; I scan the water, but just one sighting is gift enough for today.
The thin mist still hangs low on the water, lit by dappled sunlight shining low through the trees: everything is only half-defined, mysterious, still, and peaceful. “Hey, River, I've come to sit with you today. I ask for your teaching, whatever that may be.” I call to the Four Directions with my familiar prayers for guidance as to how we should live on this Earth. Then I settle down on the bank, offer River tea from my flask and a crumb of flapjack, before helping myself.
As midsummer approaches, the vegetation is growing up fast, grass and wildflowers way above my head as I sit. A new willow is pushing up to my left, showing a spurt of very recent growth. I see how the alder coppice has grown and now obscures my view downstream; and upstream, a willow has grown up tall to replace the stump that was washed away, so my spot secluded once again. A nettle next to where I am sitting is dipping into my teacup; I apologize as I brush ki away.
Blessed Be.
A train rumbles over the bridge, its reflection moving across the water. Then everything is still again, just the river moving ever so gently, little whirlpools forming and dissipating, circles of disturbance where a bubble floats up from the depths. The dark arch of the bridge frames the sunlit trees beyond and their reflections; and on the far bank the big willow tree hangs low to the water, meeting itself in a pattern of light, shadow, and reflected image. I take a picture, but as David Hockney would point out, the photograph doesn’t do it, I would have to paint it.1
I am demanding nothing.
Grateful to be here, grateful I can still be here, grateful for the many times I've come here and the many things I've learned. Grateful to my colleagues, those in my immediate inquiry groups who read what I write, the wider community of River watchers, and the far-flung company of strangers, linked only virtually, who call to the living world. Even now, when you are not physically here, you are my witnesses.
For a moment it seems that even time is suspended. Maybe, maybe, just maybe, I caught a moment of the Eternal Now.
Then a distant sound breaks the spell. It's an aeroplane high in the sky, reminding me I can’t get too far away from modernity. I pour myself another cup of tea.
And once again I am enveloped in the quietness of this place, this serene River and the bird song… again disturbed by the soft roar of a plane high up. This time, I can't see it. I can't be bothered to look for it. I choose not to let it be intrusive and I don’t hear it anymore. River is calm and quiet, the air is clear, the sun is warming me. A lot of bird song; magpie flies down the far bank. The silence that contains these sounds envelops me.
This morning, all this feels like absolutely enough. It would be rude to do anything so intentional as to call to River for any kind of response. And I wonder if that feeling is partly a benefit of being 81. I sigh, thinking on my younger self: not the young, spontaneous child, but the older self always trying to get it right. I still want to get it right, but not quite so urgently.
A feeling of deep gratitude wells up in me, and I recall Matthew Fox’s rendering of Meister Eckart
If the only prayer
you say in your entire life
is ‘Thank you’
that would suffice.2
Hockney, D., & Gayford, M. (2021). Spring Cannot be Cancelled. Thames & Hudson.
Fox, M. (1983). Meditations with Meister Eckhart. Bear and Co.
Thank you for sharing that time with us. Some of the peace and contentment you describe entered my day.
It makes me feel content, to read about your contentment. Lovely writing, too. Thank you, Peter.