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When the Rivers remember
Today, the Vara and the Lek met.
For two weeks, I had been carrying a small gift with me: a little bottle of water from the Vara, a river near Varese in Italy. The Vara had entrusted this water to me. And from deep within, I knew it was not mine to keep. It was time to bring it to where it was meant to go. To my river friend, the Lek.
The Lek has been struggling. We, humans, have taken so much water from her. And now the extraordinary warmth across Europe, together with this long dry period in the Netherlands, has drawn her waters further and further into herself. Several metres of water have disappeared. Places that were once held beneath her flowing body now lie open beneath the sky.
The riverbed has become a landscape of absence. Sandbanks have emerged where water once moved. Stones, covered with the shells of mollusks that had slept beneath the current, now lie warmed by the sun — small remnants of lives that once belonged to the hidden world of the river. Birds scavenging among them, searching for what remains.
After not being here for two and a half weeks, the changing landscape felt impressive. And yet there is sorrow here. The warmth has begun to release the scent of the dead mollusks into the air, and I could not help but feel the grief of what has been lost. I wondered if the river grieves too. If she remembers all the lives that once moved within her. If she feels her dried sandbanks, where water used to be.
I sat down upon the dry riverbed. For a while, I did nothing. I simply sat with the Lek, offering her my presence. Not because I believed I could heal the river, but because sometimes the only thing we can do in the presence of suffering is to remain in relationship with it.
When the meditation was over, I took the little bottle from my pocket and walked towards the water. And there, before opening it, I noticed something. One tiny drop of Vara water had become caught inside the lid. It was shining in the sunlight like a small pearl. Like the whole essence of the Var a was held within a single drop.
Slowly, I opened the bottle. And began to pour.
Drop by drop.
The water of the Vara entered the Lek. And the Lek answered. Ripples unfolded across her surface, moving outward in long, delicate waves. There was something playful in them. As though the Lek were welcoming an old friend home. The ripples travelled much further than I expected. I watched them moving across the surface, carried by the light, until even fourteen metres away they were still visible. The sun rested upon the skin of the river, and every movement became a small revelation of light.
Water arriving in water. One river entering another. A conversation without language. And suddenly, the meeting felt larger. Continuous movement, held in the embrace of a long-awaited return. As if they simply recognised one another. As if, for a brief moment, they had attuned themselves to the same frequency. Like two old friends seeing each other again after a long time.
Only one drop remained. I wanted to give this final drop to the Lek myself. I placed it upon the palm of my hand and leaned towards the river. But the drop would not leave me. I tried again. It stayed. A third time. Still, it remained. I paused.
"Perhaps the Vara did not want to return this final drop to the river. Maybe the Vara was telling me that I was meant to carry its energy forth."
So I lifted my hand to my lips and drank the final drop of Vara water. For a moment, I felt warm. Blessed. Knowing that the Vara had become part of me.
I stayed beside the Lek for a while longer, watching the birds move across the exposed riverbed. In the middle of all this dryness, even with an almost-dried riverbed, the Lek was still gifting life. Nourishing her relations. Even in scarcity, life was finding a way to continue.
With a deep feeling of fullness, I walked home with a big smile on my face. The little bottle was empty. But somehow, I was carrying more water than when I had arrived.
Michelle van der Vegt
Mindfulness gids en ecoloog
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