The river

It was a slowly flowing river. It bent around the grove, turning east again, the direction from which it came. In the twilight, it felt like the river had all the time in the world to reach its destination. Gently, it caressed the land that flanked it, its waters glistening in the orange-red sunlight.

Even though it moved, it was still. It moved slowly, but with an assurance that came from it knowing its ancient path. For thousands of years, men and women had crossed it on boats. Some times it had swelled and swallowed the land around it. But most often, it had been the slow mover that it was today. The Buddha had crossed it on a boat. So had ordinary men and women, looking at the same sight as was visible to one today.

Calm, assured, determined, it moved towards the point, far away, where it would merge into the ocean and one would no more know what was the river and what the ocean. Then it would come back to its riverbed through the rains.

That solitary evening, the river could be seen with its wisdom of ages, its eternal cycle of life, its soft, seductive beauty, and its companionship of the forest and the sun. It was a complete picture of existence. Nothing more was needed. Alive, regenerating, beautiful – as one stood there one lost all one’s worries and felt a sense of gratitude for life.

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~ by tdcatss on August 6, 2015.

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