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Tales of the Lek (4)
Shapes of the river
VBFor two nights, sleep had refused me. The cold had settled into my bones like an uninvited guest, and somewhere along the way, my inner fire felt dimmed. Lying awake, not yet rested, I heard the birds singing, and the morning simply began.
And somehow, that was enough. I rose, leaving the warmth of the bed and the quiet breathing of my husband behind, and stepped out to meet the Lek. The world outside was brushed by sunlight, the kind that promises warmth but does not yet deliver it.
I walked toward the river, though not toward the place I usually go. My tiredness turned me gently elsewhere, closer to home. At first, it felt like a small betrayal of ritual. But then I sensed: the river does not belong to any single edge. It is always arriving into itself, no matter where it is met. Perhaps I, too, could allow more than one way of arriving.
As I walked, my eyes and ears were drawn not to the familiar, but to the subtle.
The trees held their buds like secrets on the verge of speech. Some flowers had already opened to the morning, receiving the light as a blessing, while others, hidden in shadow, still lingered in winter’s pause. There, time seemed to move more slowly, almost reluctant.
At the river’s edge, I knelt and placed my hands into the cold water. A gesture of greeting. The chill moved through me as a messenger. It carried the threshold between seasons, the last breath of winter dissolving into the first breath of spring.
This morning, the river revealed its many faces at once: ice, vapor, liquid, and flow. Each form distinct, yet none separate, but in conversation with life itself. A story offered only to those who are willing to notice.
The ice held the plants in a tender, passing embrace. The plants, in turn, bore the melting drops with devotion. Each droplet held a tiny universe before vanishing to return to the clouds, much like the breath fading from my glasses. And beneath it all, the land offered its deep guidance, shaping the space where root and river could belong, while the morning light moved through every surface, reflected in all that was willing to receive it. A choreography of change and belonging.
I found a place where the ice had already surrendered. There, I placed my mat upon the earth, removed my shoes and socks, and allowed my body to enter into soft movement, greeting the sun and river. After applying pratyahara, the threshold of the outer world hushed as I moved into stillness. My inner world began to speak. I listened, my heartbeat soft. A subtle light touched me.
When I opened my eyes, the world had awakened. Or perhaps, I had. The birds were no longer distant. Their song moved through me. The cold had loosened its claim, and in its place, I felt a warmth begin to gather and spread through my chest. My inner fire, once dim, now slowly breathing again.
Gratitude rose in me. And so, I sang softly with them, offering a mantra into the morning air:
"Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu" May all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may my life, in thought, word, and action, be a small contribution to that freedom.
When I returned once more to the river, I knelt and placed my hands again into its water. This time, the cold did not enter me in the same way. It remained at the threshold, as though something within me had learned how to receive without being overtaken.
Going home, no longer held by the cold, at last, I felt ready to surrender to sleep.
Michelle van der Vegt
Mindfulness gids en ecoloog
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