Flowing with the river of emotions . . .

Photo by Anthony Oliver

Last week, I had the good fortune to visit the desert and play in the Colorado River. There is something magical about the red rock, clear blue skies, and the endless flow of the river. Open space, big sky, the moon—my body relaxes just thinking about it.

The trip did not start out serene. There were the details of packing, finding the camping equipment in the garage, and thinking about all the “necessities” that needed to be packed into our SUV. It had been a long while since we went camping, so it was a bit more arduous to pull things together. After days of preparation, we set off on our adventure. About 40 minutes into the drive, we realized we had left my sleeping pad in the garage. We were tent camping in the desert, so sleeping pads are kind of a necessity if one wants to sleep at all.

There was a bit of consternation between my husband, Anthony, and me as to whose fault it was for leaving a crucial piece of equipment. This resulted in a very quiet drive to our camp. Not a good way to begin a trip—arguing with your partner—but sh*% happens. As we drove, I practiced sitting with my frustration. At first, my mind continued its banter, but I just kept coming back to feeling the frustration, the burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. I literally just sat with it, feeling the frustration fully, not responding, reacting, suppressing, or acting out. It was REALLY HARD! It was hard not to lash out and say something passive-aggressive, and it was hard not to shove it down into the recesses of my stomach where I’ve habitually stored negative emotions to keep the peace. By the time we turned off the interstate, winding our way to the Colorado River, the frustration had subsided. In fact, a sort of peace washed over me. It no longer mattered whose fault it was; that ship had sailed. The reality was we only had one sleeping pad for the two of us. It was only four days; I could do four days on the ground. Anthony tried to problem-solve and offered to drive to the nearest town to find something, but I insisted it was going to work out somehow. We arrived at our campsite, greeted by the first of the friends we were meeting. We managed to scrounge up several blankets to make a makeshift sleeping pad and soon began the process of unwinding. We walked down to the river and took a swim while watching a golden eagle hunt for dinner. The river—the magic of the river in red rock country—honestly, nothing could be better except for the fact that I had managed to sit through my frustration and let it move through me. I imagined the river clearing away the debris of my emotional upset, gratefully accepting the peace flowing in through the river’s current.

Allowing emotions to move through you without suppressing or reacting is the best way to avoid building up emotional blocks. It is the healthiest thing you can do for yourself, learning to flow through your emotions, not suppressing or acting out. Down by the river, we were talking about how much we love rivers and all the metaphors rivers provide us for life. As the river flowed by, carrying away the old emotions and clearing a path for new, fresh, peaceful ones to replace them, I silently whispered gratitude for this magnificent place we call home.

I will leave you with this lovely river poem by Mary Oliver, who so encapsulates the spirit of the river.

“At the River Clarion” by Mary Oliver

1.

I don’t know who God is exactly.
But I’ll tell you this.
I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a water splashed stone
and all afternoon I listened to the voices of the river talking.
Whenever the water struck a stone it had something to say,
and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing under the water.
And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me what they were saying.
Said the river I am part of holiness.
And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered the moss beneath the water.

I’d been to the river before, a few times.
Don’t blame the river that nothing happened quickly.
You don’t hear such voices in an hour or a day.
You don’t hear them at all if selfhood has stuffed your ears.
And it’s difficult to hear anything anyway, through all the traffic, the ambition.

2.

If God exists he isn’t just butter and good luck.
He’s also the tick that killed my wonderful dog Luke.
Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then keep on going.

Imagine how the lily (who may also be a part of God) would sing to you if it could sing,
if you would pause to hear it.
And how are you so certain anyway that it doesn’t sing?

If God exists he isn’t just churches and mathematics.
He’s the forest, He’s the desert.
He’s the ice caps, that are dying.
He’s the ghetto and the Museum of Fine Arts.

He’s van Gogh and Allen Ginsberg and Robert Motherwell.
He’s the many desperate hands, cleaning and preparing their weapons.
He’s every one of us, potentially.
The leaf of grass, the genius, the politician, the poet.
And if this is true, isn’t it something very important?

Yes, it could be that I am a tiny piece of God, and each of you too, or at least
of his intention and his hope.
Which is a delight beyond measure.
I don’t know how you get to suspect such an idea.
I only know that the river kept singing.
It wasn’t a persuasion, it was all the river’s own constant joy
which was better by far than a lecture, which was comfortable, exciting, unforgettable.

3.

Of course for each of us, there is the daily life.
Let us live it, gesture by gesture.
When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?
And should we not thank the knife also?
We do not live in a simple world.

4.

There was someone I loved who grew old and ill
One by one I watched the fires go out.
There was nothing I could do

except to remember
that we receive
then we give back.

5.

My dog Luke lies in a grave in the forest, she is given back.
But the river Clarion still flows from wherever it comes from
to where it has been told to go.
I pray for the desperate earth.
I pray for the desperate world.
I do the little each person can do, it isn’t much.
Sometimes the river murmurs, sometimes it raves.

6.

Along its shores were, may I say, very intense cardinal flowers.
And trees, and birds that have wings to uphold them, for heaven’s sakes–
the lucky ones: they have such deep natures,
they are so happily obedient.
While I sit here in a house filled with books,
ideas, doubts, hesitations.

7.

And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river
keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its
long journey, its pale, infallible voice
singing.