St. Patrick’s Day will always bring me back to Chicago. A green river flowing. Stumbling Irish of every nationality, fueled with beer of the same color and a hope for Spring, brave the cool March breezes that visitors often mistake for the wind of the “windy city”, kick dirty patches of left over sidewalk snow as if to rush along the promise of the warmth to come. Maybe it was easy to believe in the seasons, in each other, all draped in emerald, as if named from the Wizard of Oz. There was an assurance that we (a we that was all inclusive) would rise up. That the blue and yellow of this almost spring sky made us all one. Green. In the Emerald City.
Somehow the curtain always gets pulled back. The great reveal of the 18th. And everyone goes back to their own colors. But maybe we’re all a bit closer for the moment.
We can choose, you know. To be together. As one. Maybe it’s never been so “windy.” Maybe we’ve never had so much to brave. But couldn’t we? Shouldn’t we? Gather in the green of the day, and just be? Together?
A robin is never just a robin. Nor a wren a wren. I can sit in front of my sketchbook for hours daily, and never paint the same thing twice. It’s always a different flight. A different branch. An old man with a new bird. A woman making another choice.
Heraclitus said, “No one ever steps into the same river twice.” For the river is not the same river and the person is not the same person. Isn’t it the same with love and friendship and simply living. And it shouldn’t be frightening. What a thing! — to be given a new river daily. A new chance to do the right thing. It’s what the poets hope for, the singers wish for, and what all of us waking to this new day simply get, joyfully receive, by opening our eyes. But will we see it? — how extraordinary it is to be given another chance. To come to the river, with fresh eyes and hearts and hands, and make a difference.Knee deep I tell myself, I tell you, this is not yesterday’s river. Nor yesterday’s wren. We can do better. We must do better. Good morning.
I don’t know how many times I sang the song, “I wish I had a river…” Joni Mitchell was a staple in our house, so when it was “coming on Christmas,” she was on repeat. How many wishes did I make for that river, a river so long that I could skate away on, before I even knew what it would mean?
It wasn’t a river where I learned to skate. In fact it was a pond. Noonan’s Pond. And by “learned” I mean, fell and broke my arm. (Maybe that’s where all lessons are learned, in the falling.) All of my summers were spent attempting to fly. From diving boards to bicycle wheels, I was certain that my feet could leave the ground. It was no different with the change in weather. When the lakes ponds and froze over, I was certain, it was simply another way to take flight.
I wore my full plastered arm, like a badge of courage. Every fifth grader celebrated the attempt. All knowing, valuing, what that breeze felt like underfoot.
The needles are already falling from our tree on this sacred eve. But it’s ok. I learned it long ago on the ice. I learn it daily, simply loving. All the rivers to cross. There will be so many stumbles and falls, and letting ins and letting gos…all breezes under our hearts, under our feet, this love teaches us daily, how to fly.
My grandfather wasn’t the lap you ran to. He was rarely sitting until the end of the day. Oh, we knew he cared, of course, that was undeniable, but his “safe place to land,” was often not a landing at all, but a continuing through. A fall from the apple tree was not hugged away. Knees would be brushed off, and signaled on. He wasn’t as crude to say shake it off, if we were already shook by the electric fence, but a gentle leading hand to the back told us an open field still lay ahead. He didn’t suffer squabbles between cousins. Had no time for whining. And it was on this very farm, just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota that I learned, it takes strength to be gentle and kind.
Standing at the edge of the vast opening of earth in Canyonlands National Park, my eyes wind their way through the Green River. I can feel the support of the ground beneath me. I can hear his voice echo through the canyon. Wasn’t it after a fall from my cousin’s bike? A bike too big for me. A bike I was warned against. A bike I climbed upon anyway, never reaching the seat, only bobbing my head above the handlebars as my feet pumped furiously. A bike whose pedal would scar my knee before throwing me to the ground. And wasn’t it my grandfather who wiped the blood on his sleeve? (No need for the coveted band-aid.) “You’re only as deep as what’s carved into you,” he smiled, taking my hand, walking me to a new project in the shed.
The river has been harsh at times, with its carving. But I don’t stand before it afraid. Nor alone. It is beautiful. And I have felt every curve to my core. Always have, always will. But that has never made me weak. I hope that it makes me kind. I run off toward today’s shed, there’s so much to do, so much to learn.
I have no ownership of it. Still, I feel connected to the Mississippi River. Living in Minneapolis all those years, we got to know each other. Understand each other. The secrets and concerns I told over bridge rails. It promising not to erase them, but carry them down. Easing worry and weight. Turning flounder into flow.
I’d like to think I thanked it, this river, for carrying my precious cargo, but I’m not sure I did. Not well enough. Perhaps it is the way with all those we love. We get used to them sharing the weight beside us. Expect it. Rely on it.
My mother was alive the last time I stood on the banks of the river between Louisiana and Mississippi. Yesterday evening in the setting sun, she still was. The love had been carried, just as promised. Ever flowing.
Some might explain it away, saying it was only the moon…but when I looked up in the sky, there was the smile. My mother’s smile. Telling me she knew. She always knew. I smiled back. The river blushed, telling me the same.
I read the Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, in the first bedroom that I remember. It was small. I shared it with my sister. Already a teenager, she didn’t appreciate my still childlike enthusiasm. I suppose it took up too much space. But it WAS big. This love I had for words. This adventure it was taking me on. Books. Stories. It was just so magical. The books didn’t just show you the river, they took you for a ride. And oh, how I wanted the ride. I suppose I still do.
Seeing the Mississippi River, in Mississippi, Louisiana, it’s not the same as in Minnesota, where I grew up. Yes, the water, the banks, I guess they are not that different, but the stories it rolls along… The stories. If you pay attention, you can hear them. And if you really listen, with any luck, (more grace, I suppose) you can feel them. But that takes up space. And only an open heart and mind has room for that.
Our country is divided. You could say by race, or religion, or politics, but maybe it all comes down to understanding — learning —education — seeing the other side of the river.
Tom Sawyer said, “Right is right and wrong is wrong, and a body ain’t got no business doing wrong when he ain’t ignorant and knows better.” I want to do better. I know we have many rivers to cross. But my heart is open. My mind is open. Tell me your story. I’m listening. Let’s ride!
