Where the River Meets the Soul

With a violent wind from the south and the tide receding steadily, the river becomes an arena of chaos. The coarse water swells and waves, crested with frothy white heads, clash against one another like restless spirits. They seem to rise and fall with a primal force, as if they are dancing wildly to the rhythm of an unseen orchestra. Amidst this wild watery waltz, a little boat struggles for balance, rolling and tossing like a leaf caught in a storm. The river, at this moment, does not welcome peace.
Inside the boat, the boatman’s hands grip the oars tightly, knuckles pale with effort. His arms are weary, his mind clouded with anxiety. The boat, though small and fragile, is his entire world. It holds not just his body but his hopes, his thoughts, his fears. The helm resists his control, pulling him left and right, and for a moment, it seems the storm outside has awakened a storm within. Madness whispers from the corners of his mind, tempting him to surrender to the river’s will.
As the tide continues to ebb, revealing the secrets of the riverbed, long brownish mudflats appear on both banks like ancient tongues licking the edges of the current. These flats, glistening under the softening light of the afternoon, stretch far into the horizon. Upon them, the world finds a moment of calm. A little white egret, elegant and still, stands like a statue carved by the hand of serenity. It balances gracefully on one leg, the other tucked beneath its wing, eyes half-closed, indifferent to the turmoil nearby. It is a picture of peace in the face of unrest.
Somewhere beyond, a group of little birds resumes their quiet singing, repeating the same notes like a lullaby handed down through generations. Their monotonous tunes are not boring but sacred, an ancient comfort that tells of endurance and continuity. The wind carries this melody across the water, reaching the boat and softening the rough edges of the boatman’s mind. It is a yearning, a longing for something gentle, something still.
The river’s current continues its course, flowing with a resonant roar. Yet even this sound, powerful and rough, seems to become a kind of music – a song of the tide, a chant of nature’s clock. And there, right in the heart of it all, floats the little boat. It does not drift aimlessly. It resists, it struggles, it dreams. The coat it wears is not of fabric but of determination, holding it together as the world around it churns and moans.
Downstream, a cluster of water hyacinths bobs along joyfully, carried effortlessly by the current. Their purple blossoms wave like tiny flags of farewell. Unlike the boat, they do not resist. They follow the flow, unburdened. They have no destination, no fight, only movement and surrender. They vanish into the distance, turning their faces away from the struggles of the little boat.
But the boatman has chosen a different path. He must go upstream. He must fight the course of the current. The tide, though fading, leaves behind a coarse and muddy texture on the water’s surface, making the journey all the more difficult. Yet he continues. His arms may ache, his breath may grow short, but his will does not falter. The river may threaten to break him, but it will not break his resolve.
The oars in his hands are small. The whirlpools ahead must be avoided with skill and intuition. Each paddle stroke is both an act of survival and an act of faith. The sky above darkens slowly, the late afternoon bleeding into dusk. Shadows stretch across the mudflats. The wind begins to hush. Night is coming.
Still, he rows.
The river becomes more than just a body of water. It becomes a metaphor for life – a wide, unpredictable road filled with storms and whirlpools, soft melodies and sudden winds.
Each of us is like that little boat. We do not always travel on calm waters. Our paths are not always clear or easy. Life’s current does not always carry us where we wish to go. And even if it does, sometimes we must choose to turn against it.
Some journey downstream, flowing effortlessly with the current. They do not struggle; their passage is smooth, graceful. They wave as they pass, like the hyacinths, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the effort others must make to move forward. But it’s not always the safer journey. Even downstream, rocks lie hidden beneath the surface. Even the easy road can lead to unknown danger.
Others, like the little boat, must journey upstream. Their path is harder, but perhaps more meaningful. They learn resilience, they build strength. Each paddle forward is a triumph. And though the progress is slow, every inch gained is won with honour.
Not all travellers reach their destination. Some may be lost along the way, caught in the whirlpools of circumstance, pulled down by the unexpected. Others may find themselves turning in circles, unsure of where to go. But in the heart of every journey, there must be purpose. There must be a reason to keep rowing.
The little boat, though tired and tossed, keeps its sight set ahead. The boatman, though nearly overwhelmed, listens to the wind, watches the water, and whispers, “Oh, little village, you are not far away, are you?” He believes in the destination. He believes that beyond the bend, past the storm, there is a place of rest – a quiet harbour with lights in windows and warm meals waiting. A place of belonging.
The sky deepens into indigo. Stars begin to shimmer above, faint and few at first, then multiply into a soft cosmic field of light. They do not speak, but their silent presence comforts the boatman. They, too, are travellers, voyaging across the heavens. Their light is ancient, yet it reaches him now, reminding him that he is not alone.
In the river, the waves settle slightly. The moon begins to rise, casting a silver ribbon upon the water. It is faint, but enough. The boatman’s eyes, though weary, find strength in that shimmer. It becomes a guide, a thread of hope stretching from his tired boat to the unseen shore.
So he rows.
The journey is not yet over, but it is not without beauty. The struggle is not yet finished, but it is not without meaning. And the little boat, though bruised by waves and worn by wind, continues forward, with grace, with courage, with hope.

GNLM