If Only I Could Live as a River Lives
There is a quiet wisdom in the way water moves through the world, never resisting the shape of the land, never lamenting the distance it must travel. A river does not question the bends that guide it, nor does it mourn the stones that line its bed. It does not demand a straight path or rail against the mountains that rise in its way. Instead, it leans into the deep intelligence of flow, yielding and yet unrelenting, surrendering and yet steadfast.
If only I could live as a river lives—trusting the shape of my own becoming, allowing each moment to carve its imprint without fear or hesitation. How often do we brace against the unknown, clinging to the familiar banks of certainty, reluctant to be carried into uncharted waters? We resist the currents of change, afraid that we will be lost, scattered, undone. Yet the river knows a secret we often forget: that to flow is not to be lost but to be found in motion, in yielding, in allowing the journey to reveal itself in time.
A river is born from something vast and unseen, from a quiet source deep within the earth, from the convergence of hidden streams and gathered rains. In the beginning, it is small, tentative, whispering its way over pebbles and roots. It does not yet know itself as a river; it simply follows the downward pull, trusting the call of gravity, surrendering to an unseen force that draws it forward. And so it grows—widening, deepening, learning the ways of motion and stillness, force and surrender.
There are moments when it tumbles in wild abandon, laughing over rocks and falls, spilling in white foam and spray. And there are moments of stillness, where it stretches wide and calm, holding the sky within its depths. It does not cling to one form or the other, does not demand to always be fast or always be slow. It allows itself to be shaped by the land, knowing that every bend, every narrowing, every widening is part of its unfolding.
And so, too, must we learn to trust the landscapes of our lives, the places that quicken us and the places that still us. The losses that carve us deep and the joys that let us flow freely. The river does not resist being shaped—it allows the land to teach it how to move, just as our lives teach us how to become.
There is a tenderness in the way a river holds all that enters it—the fallen leaves, the drifting petals, the branches that break and surrender to its current. It does not hold them back, nor does it cling to them in longing. It carries them gently, for as long as they are meant to travel with it, and then releases them into the wider embrace of the sea. If I could learn to love like this—to hold without possession, to cherish without demand, to release without regret—perhaps I, too, could flow more freely through this world.
And at last, when the river meets the sea, it does not grieve the journey it leaves behind. It does not turn back to gather its waters, does not try to hold itself apart. It lets itself go into something greater, something boundless, something that has been calling it home from the very beginning.
May I learn to trust like the river—to flow with grace, to be shaped without fear, to carry and release with an open heart. And when my own journey brings me to the great and infinite embrace, may I surrender as the river surrenders—without hesitation, without resistance—trusting that I am not ending, but simply becoming part of something vast and eternal.
BLESSING
May you wake each morning with a heart unburdened, ready to meet the unfolding day without resistance. May you trust that life will carry you where you need to go, not with force, but with a deep and quiet wisdom. Like a river bending to the shape of the land, may you move through change with grace, allowing each moment to shape you without fear or hesitation.
May you release the burdens that weigh you down—the regrets of yesterday, the worries of tomorrow, the need to control what is not yours to hold. Life is not a fixed path to be conquered, but a vast and living rhythm to be entered with wonder. May you find peace in the moments of stillness when life slows to a quiet flow, and may you also embrace the times when the current quickens, urging you forward into the unknown.
May you hold with tenderness all that life places in your hands—the beauty of fleeting moments, the love that changes and deepens, the losses that shape you in ways unseen. May you learn to cherish without clinging and to release without regret, allowing each experience to pass through you like water through open hands, leaving its mark without demanding possession.
May you always know that you are not alone. Just as the river is fed by unseen springs, so too are you sustained by the kindness of others, the love of those who have gone before you, and the deep well of strength within you that even sorrow cannot empty.
And when the time comes to surrender to something greater, may you do so with trust, knowing that the waters will carry you home. May you recognize that this is not an ending, but a return to something vast and boundless, where all that you have been flows into all that you are meant to become.
I love You,
Alma
