This is a beautiful writing that nearly brought me to tears. Living in rural northern California, my relationship with rivers is both seasonal and something I did not grow up with. It had to be learned, or rather, unlearned, for me, how to connect to them. I grew up in the urban environment of Chicago. I assumed all rivers were lined with concrete all the way along. Or at the very least, surrounded by flat, developed agricultural land that was fenced on all sides. I also inferred from my early experience that all rivers were polluted and frankly, gross. Being in one seemed like one of the worst things that could happen to a person, physically speaking.
When I moved to rural northern California over a decade ago, I remember the first time a group of (then-new) friends asked me, "do you want to go swimming in the river with us?" and I recoiled with disgust. "Isn't that gross?" I asked, but fortunately, my curious spirit prevailed and I went with them anyway. What I learned on that first glorious trip to the Van Duzen river was only the very beginning. I have since become a long-distance hiker (taking myself to rivers so pristine, they cannot be reached by any other means than on foot or by mule), general admirer of The Outdoors at large, and avid swimmer within wild bodies of water. Most recently I have taken up the practice of swimming in the Pacific Ocean without a wetsuit, which is entirely its own topic. But our local rivers will always hold an incredibly important place in my heart. They were the original catalyst in my now-lifelong process of "re-wilding" my spirit.
Rivers really are alive. They hold us, their water heals us, always moving, always having something to say. Supporting life on all levels, from the microscopic to the global. Persisting, and supporting our persistence, too. Reminding us that change is the only constant, and to appreciate the beauty of change rather than resist it. When I am in the Salmon River, my favorite river (don't tell her neighbors...!), I am overcome with that numinous feeling - a complete reverence takes over me, and I am simultaneously humbled to the core and lifted up with joy and aliveness. I have ditched the original instinct to push away from this magical feeling so completely that I now regularly daydream about my romantic and reverent feelings for these places and really only feel the most "me" when I am near them. It almost seems like...what are we doing when we /aren't/ making pilgrimage to these places? Isn't that what it's all about? The rest of life is just mish mosh. The rivers are the place to be.
Thank you for the beautiful piece. It resonates deeply with me. I know these feelings well; how gratifying it is to read about them and how they appear for you and others.
May I respectfully disagree here? I think this beautiful reply and souvenir from Firefly says it all: rivers are not alive. Isn’t that the contradiction when she says, “Rivers really are alive. They hold us, their water heals us, always moving, always having something to say. Supporting life on all levels” unsurmountable as we’re faced with two definitions of life here: one that applies to actual living beings, and one metaphorically applied to rivers. You can’t strip real life of its definition just to drape it over the river. Doing so is erases real life. Very illogical and unecological, isn't it?
You might argue otherwise, but I think this is the very same mistake as the human exceptionalism you and Rob have spoken about. It leads to the disappearance of life's exceptionalism again. Human exceptionalism and the ontological claim that a river is alive are not opposites—they are expressions of the same philosophical trend: one that strips life (real life) of its singularity.
May I respectfully disagree again? The question this discussion raises isn't 'what do we mean by being alive' but rather what extension covers what we -all know -being alive means. Macfarlane's book exploits the confusion between the intension and extension of definitions, here at the expense of our extended family (lif). This isn't a joke; it's ecologically perilous
Thanks for the discussion. It's good to see a social network that's truly social.
When I say we all know what it means to be alive, I mean that we’ve all experienced the death of someone dear to us. We know they’re no longer alive—and so we understand, through contrast and pain, what being alive means. Of course, there are some that will still say that there life after life, or like Macfarlane there is life outside life, but they have to prove that, not the reverse. Plus, ecologically (materially) speaking, such hoax are very dangerous. Macfarlane, in my view, does what Carlos Castaneda once did to sell books (warp our naturalistic framework). It’s worth noting that Castaneda is a key reference for Yuvan Aves, one of the main contributors to Is a River Alive?
And there are so many ways to grasp what life is that I’m genuinely shocked by the confusion surrounding it today.
Another simple way to understand life: we eat (about 99.99% of the time) things that were once alive. Our instincts recognize life through this very act. Or we all scan our context for movement that are not following natural laws, that behave differently s we know they are potential predators, prey or competitors. Or take the scientific approach: being alive means being subject to natural selection (Darwin). In a nutshell, the definition of alive is very easy for anybody with clear intend.
Macfarlane, however, reverses the burden of proof. We do know what being alive means. But because being alive is intensionally charged—something we experience more than we articulate—he plays with the definition. That, to me, is deeply unecological.
Beautiful. It reminded me of LM Montgomery who wrote in a way that made nature alive with its own unique personality. I’d forgotten what it was like to surrender to nature even though it was instinctive when I was young. Thank you for reminding me.
I am, or was, a whitewater kayaker. My home river, until four years ago, was the mighty Potomac whose headwaters are in the Allegheny Mountains and which flows between Maryland and Virginia, passing through Washington DC on its way to the Chesapeake Bay. The river is a part of me, an extension of me and I feel I'm part of it. I've been nearly frozen by it, concussed within it, terrified, thrilled, empowered, calmed and many other things that I can't express. What I love most though is the feeling when I'm supported by it or in it, when its water flows through my fingers, or its banks squish between my toes.
Wonderful post and interview :) I love your description of the resistance and potential surrender in encountering nature…and numinous is such a wonderful word to know!…When I voice it in my mind, it feels like even a subtle shift from seeing the nature around us as simply instrumental, but instrumental to their community instead and with us in that community—is quite powerful. It’s really not such a big leap even on the most practical level. And while instrumental can sound so clinical, it’s what gives us the symphony—where everything is collaborating responsively towards harmony. The magical and beautiful are deeply entwined as reality…It really is amazing though—the enormity of assumptions there are that nature is meant to be shaped for utility for us without even the thought that there could be value we don’t even recognize—and the costs of this are enormous. One of my favorite stories illustrating this that I’ve been told is that the Army Corps of Engineers literally straightened a river (I’ll have to find out how long it was!), presumably for more efficient transport, but then they found the river flowed too fast and a lot of the surrounding ecology became disrupted, and I’d imagined it may have been a problem for the stability of the banks. It was a lot of work to straighten the river, as one would guess. They ultimately rebuilt it as it was originally though—so it was double the work…As for my river(s), I’ve been starting to write about this—I can’t shake the feeling. I’m getting to know the river I grew up near, in the city. I actually see it everyday from my windows. Living in the country down south, I got to experience what a river could be and now the city river is alive to me in new ways—and I’m starting to learn about its history because I can feel it. I was feeling it even before I moved back. I feel bad for the ways it’s confined and polluted, but still I feel its power and presence even when I’m several blocks away. When so much has come and gone within my surroundings, it’s still here doing its thing. And it’s been here longer than just about everything besides the rock of the island, I’d imagine. I also feel palpably how far it reaches and how it could carry me away from the city for fun or even for safety if somehow things came to that.
Great to hear about wondergul transcendent experiences, something we all have in common.
I thought you might be interested in the spiritual values of rivers - and water masses in general, for us here in Aoetearoa/New Zealand for which we largely have to thank our Māori people.
In Māori culture, rivers are deeply revered and hold profound spiritual significance, being considered the veins and lifeblood of Papatūānuku (Earth Mother). They are not just physical waterways but are also connected to tribal identity, genealogy (whakapapa), and the ancestral spirits (tūpuna).
Rivers provide a vital source of water, food (mahinga kai), and materials. Water is thought of as the purest form of sustenance.
The sea is resected as the sacred place where food gathered. ?
"Moana Kai" in Māori translates to "food of the ocean". It is a term widely used in New Zealand to refer to seafood and the ocean as a source of food.
Many rivers are associated with specific tribal areas and play a role in tribal stories and legends.
They represent the tīpuna (ancestors) who have been with Māori throughout history.
Knowing the river or mountain that a person identifies with is a key part of their identity and whakapapa. When introducing yourself to others at meetings it is common to identify "your river".
Rivers are considered sacred (wāhi tapu) and supernatural places, with some rivers having taniwha (spiritual beings) that protect and uphold tribal mana.
Certain rivers are known for their healing or cleansing powers, used in ritual cleansing and other ceremonies. People gather at rivers to rejuvenate their spirit and invoke the ancestors.
Rivers and the sea served as important access routes and means of travel for Māori. Rivers were used for landing sites, settlements, and as a source of fresh water. Buckminster Fuller pointed out a long time ago that Māori view the world in a figure ground reversal. Inlets and bodies of water are positive and land masses are negative volumes.
"....to them water is normal an island is a hole in the ocean. They look on the harbor as the penis of the ocean going into that land. The sea is a positive, and the land is a negative."
Rivers are seen as a reflection of the earth's energy and spirit.
The water in rivers is believed to have its own mauri (life force) and wairua (spirit).
Powerful. Thanks for sharing this. There are worlds to explore here, but I’m particularly fascinated with seeing water and land as figure ground reversal, and with gathering at the river to rejuvenate the spirit and invoke ancestors. I think these qualities have entered my relationship with my river a bit already, and I’d be glad for them to grow.
The river feels so central as if it connects me to the whole world and through time, and the city shifts, losing its centrality and exists in relationship to the vital force of these waters. I left NYC years ago in part hoping to prove to myself it wasn’t the center of the universe that everyone seemed to feel it was and I found it wasn’t—to my satisfaction, but now even here where it can swallow you up the rivers itself displace the city’s centrality for me and shrink it in perspective and the motion of the river highlights the steadiness and solidity of the land underneath all the city bustle—its steady legs, constancy capable of influencing the inhabitants as the water can, unconsciously and even all the more if we consciously notice.
I often feel close to consciousnesses of others and of nature from different times including ancestors—sometimes feeling like it’s a continuous connection through time that somehow extends from the cells and atoms and charges I’m made of. It feels like that might well be stronger the more often I deliberately let myself feel into that at the river.
I lived for a few years near the Moose River in northern Ontario, Canada. It has a tide, and thus, if canoeing, you would want to check that you managed your coming and going with it. I was once overtaken by the numinous experience on the river so much, that I got a stern callout from my partner in the canoe, as we were close to being swept downstream instead of landing nicely at Moose Factory. I learned to respect rivers for where they take us and what they bring to us.
River: twenty odd years ago the Whanganui carried some friends on canoes for three days and over 90km towards the sea. One of the nights we stayed on a marae (māori meeting place) and had a traditional welcome when we arrived. I still remember it all very fondly and was glad when in 2017 this happened:
I finally listened to your full unedited interview with Robert Macfarlane last week Jonny. It's less of a fanboy interview, and more the entanglement of two marvelous philosophical minds that was a treasure to listen to. What a conversation! I think I swore aloud in excitement when Algernon Blackwood was mentioned. I am deep in the eerie woods of his stories and biography at the moment.
I was going to wait until I had the book, and I checked my letterbox half way through listening, hoping it had arrived for the weekend but sadly not. Empty letterbox, alas. Then, a gift from the parcel gods when it arrived a few hours later.This will be a slow meander of a read for me and I also really feel like re-reading The Wind in the Willows now too, thanks to all the beautiful river talk.
I saw someone else mentioned this to you already elsewhere, but I'll reiterate -- if you haven't seen the 1990 film Mindwalk, based on Fritjof Capra's work, seek it out. The best way I can describe it is a visual conversation. If you are mindwalking in Macfarlane, Daosim etc. it's an absolutely beautiful side quest for some deep thinking. I think it became my all time favourite film at first watch.
May I respond with a very quick counter-story, as I completely but respectfully disagree with the meaning of your text?
You spoke of a river being alive and seemed to oppose this idea to an "us-and-them" framing, where “them”, I suppose, appears to refer to other living beings, real ones. But this doesn’t quite align. What we truly have is just a bit more complex : us and them facing the inanimate. That’s what I believe my swimming story illustrates. You’ll let me know what you think.
I’m an avid swimmer. I was even a very good one. In my early twenties, still a big kid, I found a summer job on an Atlantic island. Every day during my break, I’d spend 2 to 4 hours swimming in the ocean, always alone. I felt great, energized and deeply alive. After two months, I was able to swim out into 4-meter-high waves and return without fear.
On my last day there, to say farewell to the ocean, I decided to swim very far. Very far. Something happened to me that (I believe) was unique: I encountered a group of whales. I was stunned. I hadn’t even known whales lived in those waters. I followed them like a madman, trying to stretch out the moment, until they finally dove straight into the dark depths.
When I lifted my head again, I was lost. I couldn’t see the island (though it wasn’t truly lost, just hidden behind the waves. I was disoriented). Panic began to set in, but I calmed myself with breathing exercises and concentration to manage my fear of dying.
At that moment, I had a shock of insight: life means fighting against non-life. Image of the whales came back. They are like me. Us and them. I’ve spent years studying to understand what that moment really meant to me. I became an artificialist (I believe life is anti-nature, contending with the non-life, with the universe).
It is evident to me now that it is life, real life, that creates rivers, that makes the Earth into a home. Rivers doesn't create life. They don't create. Rivers, like oceans, are not alive. We feel alive when we confront our mortality within them. We feel joy of being on Earth because life has tames this rock in the universe for us.
I could elaborate on this for hours, but I’ll stop here, hoping to have not bother or bored you and hoping to hear your thoughts.
Why would I fight against it? Its the very thing that bore me from the dawn of time. It is our mother, father and family. It brought about all life. We are made from is very essence.
Who was it that put themselves in the place they were in when they found they were in trouble? That's the person responsible. The universe didn't pull you out. The whales didn't lure you like sirens. The water didn't force you in any direction. You chose. They all simply did what their nature dictates.
If the universe and the waters are dead, how are they responsible? Are you claiming the inanimate and unliving did something? How?
Lastly, it's this the same universe and water that let you move back through it to the safety of the shore... which is also part of the very universe you claim to fight against.
Yes, you do fight the universe. You just don’t wonder about it—just like a fish doesn’t wonder about the water it’s in since always, because it would seem senseless to do so.
Please understand, I’m not talking about life’s intention, but its intension—we're discussing the definition of life. You seem to steer our conversation toward the notion of will. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the word fight that suggests this. Maybe struggle would be better—used in the same sense as Darwin did in the subtitle of On the Origin of Species, which remains a key reference when talking about life.
Re you struggling with the universe: For example, you’re constantly spending energy to carry kilos of atmosphere on your shoulders without feeling it (like a fish in a water), or constantly resisting gravity just to be. Not your intention, but your intension. The struggle is just co-substantial with life. It is part of it. The only way not to fight the laws of nature—the laws of the universe—is to be the universe, that is, not to be life. Like a rock, submissive to gravity (as you said: "They all simply did what their nature dictates").
Regarding your last point: the universe didn’t stop me from moving back. As you seem to suggest—and I agree—the universe bears no responsibility. I moved myself back. It is the counterpart of fighting the universe. I am free to want to move in it.
So to take your words. Universe does what nature dictates. Life does it life.
Yes—beautiful. It’s so subtle—but in the darkness, the “stillness”, the “silence” actually lies the heart of everything. Like seeds imperceptibly trembling in darkness in the earth as it germinates. It can easily seem like nothing is happening, but a whole worlds are germinating and being born. We are surrounded and swimming in all of this all the time. It moves through us and pulls our blood like tides. It moves our souls and our bodies and celestial bodies alike in the great dance.
This is a beautiful writing that nearly brought me to tears. Living in rural northern California, my relationship with rivers is both seasonal and something I did not grow up with. It had to be learned, or rather, unlearned, for me, how to connect to them. I grew up in the urban environment of Chicago. I assumed all rivers were lined with concrete all the way along. Or at the very least, surrounded by flat, developed agricultural land that was fenced on all sides. I also inferred from my early experience that all rivers were polluted and frankly, gross. Being in one seemed like one of the worst things that could happen to a person, physically speaking.
When I moved to rural northern California over a decade ago, I remember the first time a group of (then-new) friends asked me, "do you want to go swimming in the river with us?" and I recoiled with disgust. "Isn't that gross?" I asked, but fortunately, my curious spirit prevailed and I went with them anyway. What I learned on that first glorious trip to the Van Duzen river was only the very beginning. I have since become a long-distance hiker (taking myself to rivers so pristine, they cannot be reached by any other means than on foot or by mule), general admirer of The Outdoors at large, and avid swimmer within wild bodies of water. Most recently I have taken up the practice of swimming in the Pacific Ocean without a wetsuit, which is entirely its own topic. But our local rivers will always hold an incredibly important place in my heart. They were the original catalyst in my now-lifelong process of "re-wilding" my spirit.
Rivers really are alive. They hold us, their water heals us, always moving, always having something to say. Supporting life on all levels, from the microscopic to the global. Persisting, and supporting our persistence, too. Reminding us that change is the only constant, and to appreciate the beauty of change rather than resist it. When I am in the Salmon River, my favorite river (don't tell her neighbors...!), I am overcome with that numinous feeling - a complete reverence takes over me, and I am simultaneously humbled to the core and lifted up with joy and aliveness. I have ditched the original instinct to push away from this magical feeling so completely that I now regularly daydream about my romantic and reverent feelings for these places and really only feel the most "me" when I am near them. It almost seems like...what are we doing when we /aren't/ making pilgrimage to these places? Isn't that what it's all about? The rest of life is just mish mosh. The rivers are the place to be.
Thank you for the beautiful piece. It resonates deeply with me. I know these feelings well; how gratifying it is to read about them and how they appear for you and others.
Thank you so much! What a rich and lovely message to read. This alone makes it all worth it.
Dear Jonny,
May I respectfully disagree here? I think this beautiful reply and souvenir from Firefly says it all: rivers are not alive. Isn’t that the contradiction when she says, “Rivers really are alive. They hold us, their water heals us, always moving, always having something to say. Supporting life on all levels” unsurmountable as we’re faced with two definitions of life here: one that applies to actual living beings, and one metaphorically applied to rivers. You can’t strip real life of its definition just to drape it over the river. Doing so is erases real life. Very illogical and unecological, isn't it?
You might argue otherwise, but I think this is the very same mistake as the human exceptionalism you and Rob have spoken about. It leads to the disappearance of life's exceptionalism again. Human exceptionalism and the ontological claim that a river is alive are not opposites—they are expressions of the same philosophical trend: one that strips life (real life) of its singularity.
I’d be grateful to hear your thoughts.
Very respectfully,
Michel
I suppose it begs the first question, what do we mean by alive?
May I respectfully disagree again? The question this discussion raises isn't 'what do we mean by being alive' but rather what extension covers what we -all know -being alive means. Macfarlane's book exploits the confusion between the intension and extension of definitions, here at the expense of our extended family (lif). This isn't a joke; it's ecologically perilous
I'll simply repeat my question, what do we mean by alive?
You claim it isn't alive, but give no parameters to define life, death, unliving or eternal.
Macfarlane however does provide his definition of alive.
Thanks for the discussion. It's good to see a social network that's truly social.
When I say we all know what it means to be alive, I mean that we’ve all experienced the death of someone dear to us. We know they’re no longer alive—and so we understand, through contrast and pain, what being alive means. Of course, there are some that will still say that there life after life, or like Macfarlane there is life outside life, but they have to prove that, not the reverse. Plus, ecologically (materially) speaking, such hoax are very dangerous. Macfarlane, in my view, does what Carlos Castaneda once did to sell books (warp our naturalistic framework). It’s worth noting that Castaneda is a key reference for Yuvan Aves, one of the main contributors to Is a River Alive?
And there are so many ways to grasp what life is that I’m genuinely shocked by the confusion surrounding it today.
Another simple way to understand life: we eat (about 99.99% of the time) things that were once alive. Our instincts recognize life through this very act. Or we all scan our context for movement that are not following natural laws, that behave differently s we know they are potential predators, prey or competitors. Or take the scientific approach: being alive means being subject to natural selection (Darwin). In a nutshell, the definition of alive is very easy for anybody with clear intend.
Macfarlane, however, reverses the burden of proof. We do know what being alive means. But because being alive is intensionally charged—something we experience more than we articulate—he plays with the definition. That, to me, is deeply unecological.
Beautiful. It reminded me of LM Montgomery who wrote in a way that made nature alive with its own unique personality. I’d forgotten what it was like to surrender to nature even though it was instinctive when I was young. Thank you for reminding me.
" no person ever steps in the same river twice for it's not the same river and they are not the same person" Heraclitus
I am, or was, a whitewater kayaker. My home river, until four years ago, was the mighty Potomac whose headwaters are in the Allegheny Mountains and which flows between Maryland and Virginia, passing through Washington DC on its way to the Chesapeake Bay. The river is a part of me, an extension of me and I feel I'm part of it. I've been nearly frozen by it, concussed within it, terrified, thrilled, empowered, calmed and many other things that I can't express. What I love most though is the feeling when I'm supported by it or in it, when its water flows through my fingers, or its banks squish between my toes.
Wonderful post and interview :) I love your description of the resistance and potential surrender in encountering nature…and numinous is such a wonderful word to know!…When I voice it in my mind, it feels like even a subtle shift from seeing the nature around us as simply instrumental, but instrumental to their community instead and with us in that community—is quite powerful. It’s really not such a big leap even on the most practical level. And while instrumental can sound so clinical, it’s what gives us the symphony—where everything is collaborating responsively towards harmony. The magical and beautiful are deeply entwined as reality…It really is amazing though—the enormity of assumptions there are that nature is meant to be shaped for utility for us without even the thought that there could be value we don’t even recognize—and the costs of this are enormous. One of my favorite stories illustrating this that I’ve been told is that the Army Corps of Engineers literally straightened a river (I’ll have to find out how long it was!), presumably for more efficient transport, but then they found the river flowed too fast and a lot of the surrounding ecology became disrupted, and I’d imagined it may have been a problem for the stability of the banks. It was a lot of work to straighten the river, as one would guess. They ultimately rebuilt it as it was originally though—so it was double the work…As for my river(s), I’ve been starting to write about this—I can’t shake the feeling. I’m getting to know the river I grew up near, in the city. I actually see it everyday from my windows. Living in the country down south, I got to experience what a river could be and now the city river is alive to me in new ways—and I’m starting to learn about its history because I can feel it. I was feeling it even before I moved back. I feel bad for the ways it’s confined and polluted, but still I feel its power and presence even when I’m several blocks away. When so much has come and gone within my surroundings, it’s still here doing its thing. And it’s been here longer than just about everything besides the rock of the island, I’d imagine. I also feel palpably how far it reaches and how it could carry me away from the city for fun or even for safety if somehow things came to that.
Great to hear about wondergul transcendent experiences, something we all have in common.
I thought you might be interested in the spiritual values of rivers - and water masses in general, for us here in Aoetearoa/New Zealand for which we largely have to thank our Māori people.
In Māori culture, rivers are deeply revered and hold profound spiritual significance, being considered the veins and lifeblood of Papatūānuku (Earth Mother). They are not just physical waterways but are also connected to tribal identity, genealogy (whakapapa), and the ancestral spirits (tūpuna).
Rivers provide a vital source of water, food (mahinga kai), and materials. Water is thought of as the purest form of sustenance.
The sea is resected as the sacred place where food gathered. ?
"Moana Kai" in Māori translates to "food of the ocean". It is a term widely used in New Zealand to refer to seafood and the ocean as a source of food.
Many rivers are associated with specific tribal areas and play a role in tribal stories and legends.
They represent the tīpuna (ancestors) who have been with Māori throughout history.
Knowing the river or mountain that a person identifies with is a key part of their identity and whakapapa. When introducing yourself to others at meetings it is common to identify "your river".
Rivers are considered sacred (wāhi tapu) and supernatural places, with some rivers having taniwha (spiritual beings) that protect and uphold tribal mana.
Certain rivers are known for their healing or cleansing powers, used in ritual cleansing and other ceremonies. People gather at rivers to rejuvenate their spirit and invoke the ancestors.
Rivers and the sea served as important access routes and means of travel for Māori. Rivers were used for landing sites, settlements, and as a source of fresh water. Buckminster Fuller pointed out a long time ago that Māori view the world in a figure ground reversal. Inlets and bodies of water are positive and land masses are negative volumes.
"....to them water is normal an island is a hole in the ocean. They look on the harbor as the penis of the ocean going into that land. The sea is a positive, and the land is a negative."
Rivers are seen as a reflection of the earth's energy and spirit.
The water in rivers is believed to have its own mauri (life force) and wairua (spirit).
Powerful. Thanks for sharing this. There are worlds to explore here, but I’m particularly fascinated with seeing water and land as figure ground reversal, and with gathering at the river to rejuvenate the spirit and invoke ancestors. I think these qualities have entered my relationship with my river a bit already, and I’d be glad for them to grow.
The river feels so central as if it connects me to the whole world and through time, and the city shifts, losing its centrality and exists in relationship to the vital force of these waters. I left NYC years ago in part hoping to prove to myself it wasn’t the center of the universe that everyone seemed to feel it was and I found it wasn’t—to my satisfaction, but now even here where it can swallow you up the rivers itself displace the city’s centrality for me and shrink it in perspective and the motion of the river highlights the steadiness and solidity of the land underneath all the city bustle—its steady legs, constancy capable of influencing the inhabitants as the water can, unconsciously and even all the more if we consciously notice.
I often feel close to consciousnesses of others and of nature from different times including ancestors—sometimes feeling like it’s a continuous connection through time that somehow extends from the cells and atoms and charges I’m made of. It feels like that might well be stronger the more often I deliberately let myself feel into that at the river.
I lived for a few years near the Moose River in northern Ontario, Canada. It has a tide, and thus, if canoeing, you would want to check that you managed your coming and going with it. I was once overtaken by the numinous experience on the river so much, that I got a stern callout from my partner in the canoe, as we were close to being swept downstream instead of landing nicely at Moose Factory. I learned to respect rivers for where they take us and what they bring to us.
River: twenty odd years ago the Whanganui carried some friends on canoes for three days and over 90km towards the sea. One of the nights we stayed on a marae (māori meeting place) and had a traditional welcome when we arrived. I still remember it all very fondly and was glad when in 2017 this happened:
https://www.rnz.co.nz/news/te-manu-korihi/326689/whanganui-river-to-gain-legal-personhood
I finally listened to your full unedited interview with Robert Macfarlane last week Jonny. It's less of a fanboy interview, and more the entanglement of two marvelous philosophical minds that was a treasure to listen to. What a conversation! I think I swore aloud in excitement when Algernon Blackwood was mentioned. I am deep in the eerie woods of his stories and biography at the moment.
I was going to wait until I had the book, and I checked my letterbox half way through listening, hoping it had arrived for the weekend but sadly not. Empty letterbox, alas. Then, a gift from the parcel gods when it arrived a few hours later.This will be a slow meander of a read for me and I also really feel like re-reading The Wind in the Willows now too, thanks to all the beautiful river talk.
I saw someone else mentioned this to you already elsewhere, but I'll reiterate -- if you haven't seen the 1990 film Mindwalk, based on Fritjof Capra's work, seek it out. The best way I can describe it is a visual conversation. If you are mindwalking in Macfarlane, Daosim etc. it's an absolutely beautiful side quest for some deep thinking. I think it became my all time favourite film at first watch.
Dear Jonny,
May I respond with a very quick counter-story, as I completely but respectfully disagree with the meaning of your text?
You spoke of a river being alive and seemed to oppose this idea to an "us-and-them" framing, where “them”, I suppose, appears to refer to other living beings, real ones. But this doesn’t quite align. What we truly have is just a bit more complex : us and them facing the inanimate. That’s what I believe my swimming story illustrates. You’ll let me know what you think.
I’m an avid swimmer. I was even a very good one. In my early twenties, still a big kid, I found a summer job on an Atlantic island. Every day during my break, I’d spend 2 to 4 hours swimming in the ocean, always alone. I felt great, energized and deeply alive. After two months, I was able to swim out into 4-meter-high waves and return without fear.
On my last day there, to say farewell to the ocean, I decided to swim very far. Very far. Something happened to me that (I believe) was unique: I encountered a group of whales. I was stunned. I hadn’t even known whales lived in those waters. I followed them like a madman, trying to stretch out the moment, until they finally dove straight into the dark depths.
When I lifted my head again, I was lost. I couldn’t see the island (though it wasn’t truly lost, just hidden behind the waves. I was disoriented). Panic began to set in, but I calmed myself with breathing exercises and concentration to manage my fear of dying.
At that moment, I had a shock of insight: life means fighting against non-life. Image of the whales came back. They are like me. Us and them. I’ve spent years studying to understand what that moment really meant to me. I became an artificialist (I believe life is anti-nature, contending with the non-life, with the universe).
It is evident to me now that it is life, real life, that creates rivers, that makes the Earth into a home. Rivers doesn't create life. They don't create. Rivers, like oceans, are not alive. We feel alive when we confront our mortality within them. We feel joy of being on Earth because life has tames this rock in the universe for us.
I could elaborate on this for hours, but I’ll stop here, hoping to have not bother or bored you and hoping to hear your thoughts.
Best wishes,
Michel
This like before begs the first question - what do you mean by alive?
For me you story begs another question - who were you fighting with for life?
I was fighting against the universe, like any living beings does.
I don't.
Why would I fight against it? Its the very thing that bore me from the dawn of time. It is our mother, father and family. It brought about all life. We are made from is very essence.
Who was it that put themselves in the place they were in when they found they were in trouble? That's the person responsible. The universe didn't pull you out. The whales didn't lure you like sirens. The water didn't force you in any direction. You chose. They all simply did what their nature dictates.
If the universe and the waters are dead, how are they responsible? Are you claiming the inanimate and unliving did something? How?
Lastly, it's this the same universe and water that let you move back through it to the safety of the shore... which is also part of the very universe you claim to fight against.
Yes, you do fight the universe. You just don’t wonder about it—just like a fish doesn’t wonder about the water it’s in since always, because it would seem senseless to do so.
Please understand, I’m not talking about life’s intention, but its intension—we're discussing the definition of life. You seem to steer our conversation toward the notion of will. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the word fight that suggests this. Maybe struggle would be better—used in the same sense as Darwin did in the subtitle of On the Origin of Species, which remains a key reference when talking about life.
Re you struggling with the universe: For example, you’re constantly spending energy to carry kilos of atmosphere on your shoulders without feeling it (like a fish in a water), or constantly resisting gravity just to be. Not your intention, but your intension. The struggle is just co-substantial with life. It is part of it. The only way not to fight the laws of nature—the laws of the universe—is to be the universe, that is, not to be life. Like a rock, submissive to gravity (as you said: "They all simply did what their nature dictates").
Regarding your last point: the universe didn’t stop me from moving back. As you seem to suggest—and I agree—the universe bears no responsibility. I moved myself back. It is the counterpart of fighting the universe. I am free to want to move in it.
So to take your words. Universe does what nature dictates. Life does it life.
Lunch at Goethe Park
The softest breeze caresses my cheek,
A warm summer is about to turn hot,
on a day the moon still chooses to hide.
Over the hill,
slow this time of year,
the river carries all that it touches.
Relentless,
As the day before and the day after.
The coolest waters seeking what is deep and dark,
like a grief unremembered but not forgotten.
Michael Tscheu
Nature is the physical numinous.
Yes—beautiful. It’s so subtle—but in the darkness, the “stillness”, the “silence” actually lies the heart of everything. Like seeds imperceptibly trembling in darkness in the earth as it germinates. It can easily seem like nothing is happening, but a whole worlds are germinating and being born. We are surrounded and swimming in all of this all the time. It moves through us and pulls our blood like tides. It moves our souls and our bodies and celestial bodies alike in the great dance.