The past few weeks have been wonderfully full of life, learning, and becoming. I took part in a five-day “learn how to row a boat on rivers” school, officiated a wedding, a funeral, bought a drift boat, and even got the dishes done. Like all the way done. They are now undone, and that is cause for lament.
It is the seasons of extra that invite me to wonder why I fill my plate with more than I can handle. Sometimes it is by choice. I loved adding five days on the river to my rhythm. Sometimes it is my past-self making plans for my future self. And sometimes it is by whimsy, love, and delight.
Along the way, I made new friends, learned about river navigation and fish habitat, and even caught a pike! But there is deeper learning too; about overcoming fears, hitting rocks in the river, and the dangers of simply “going with the flow.”
When you want to cross a river in a drift boat, you need to angle the boat against the current and row. Staying too much in line with the flow just makes you pull harder and longer and not get anywhere. Angle against the flow, move to where you need to go.
I’ve wanted to write about that part for a while. I didn’t want a triumphant story about breaking the mold and being different. So here is the warning: When the current picks up speed, and if you go with it, you might hit a rock. And if you go with the flow, you’ll miss the trout. Trout live in walking pace water, the speed of a romantic saunter with your lover.
And yes, I am guilty of being too poetic about fly fishing.
I was talking with a friend while driving off the river about how much better we feel when we detach from our phones. He challenged me to leave mine in the other room, even for a few hours, to see if the quality of my presence improves. And it does. I remarked that the only time we aren’t on our phones is when they are plugged in to charge. I wonder what it looks like for us to plug in to nature instead, to recharge.
It seems that the things best for our souls often run against the current of culture. Don’t go with the flow. Plug in to nature instead of unplugging. Don’t take on too much. And in those spaces of counter-current, that’s where the fish are. And perhaps, other treasures too.
One of those five days was spent pike fishing. Pike, in my mind, are a lot like chickens: the closest living thing we have to dinosaurs. Massive and patient, they rest along foliage lines, bursting with speed and power. I wager I think about them more than they remember seeing me. Perhaps that is what is hauntingly infectious about pike: they exist on their own terms, even while I rush back to work. As I marvel at their existence, I wonder what they think of us. The hurry, the scurry, the constant striving. They are effortless in their effort, while I expend energy on things that often don’t pan out.
This is one of the many things I love about nature. It exists in a vast expanse I will never fully witness. I can learn spots and places, but nature will continue to be a powerful, unlimited resource—far beyond myself. The river is a resource for my inner world, bringing stillness and calm. A constant, a salve. Wild and free.
The river has helped me make friends, clarify my values, catch trout, and overcome fears. My friends have helped me learn the river, articulate visions, catch trout, and overcome doubts. The trout have helped me make friends, make decisions about vocation, and remind me of my beautiful humanity.
It is a wild thing we get to do, this thing called life.