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736 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 29, 2023
Maybe we’re like rivers. We begin as a trickle, moving over the ground. We grow into the world around us. Affect it. Shape it.
But it shapes us as well.
We come up to something hard, something solid and immovable and implacable, and we bend around it. It defines our course, and the longer we skirt it, the more deeply we carve ourselves into that path.
But we continue on, affecting and being affected by the world we encounter. Sometimes finding low, gentle places to slow and rest. Sometimes finding places so low we pool there and cannot rise high enough to leave.
Sometimes rockslides tumble into us, shoving us in a new direction.
There are aspects to the metaphor I like. The river’s path is the path of my life. I could map it out for you. Name the things that molded it.
But somehow, I am also the water. All of the water.
Even here, when I know I’m reaching the end, when I can smell the sea, feel the vastness of the unknown I’m flowing towards—even here I am still in every stretch of the river I’ve passed.
Or maybe it is in me. Particles of silt from the valleys. Slivers of stone I broke off over the rapids.
I suppose it’s both.
It has formed me, and some part of me is still back in every turn.