"River Wisdom" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Here in the Northwoods, the St. Croix River often calls to me. Not with sound, but with a presence—an ancient whisper that speaks to something deep and enduring within. Its waters, shaped over millennia, carry the echoes of the past, hold the rhythm of the present, and shimmer with the mysteries of the future. I find myself drawn to its banks time and time again, not just for the serenity, but for the silent wisdom it offers.
Rivers, as powerful and dynamic natural forces, have long been revered by cultures across the world. They are ever-moving, never static. Their courses shift and bend, erode and build, always responding to the land around them. In this way, rivers become teachers. They remind us that life is never still—that change is not only inevitable, but natural. The current of a river doesn't fight its path; it flows with it, adapting around rock and root, deepening here, quickening there. In doing so, it shows us the value of flexibility and persistence.
The river supports countless forms of life. Trees lean in close to drink from it, fish dart through its shallows, birds sing above it, and humans—like me—stand beside it, absorbing its lessons. A river is not just water—it is connection. It is the thread that ties together ecosystems, stories, and generations. This too is a truth worth remembering: that we are all connected, and what happens upstream, whether in nature or in life, eventually affects the whole.
For me, rivers are a metaphor for the life journey itself. That which is upstream—hidden by a bend, still forming—is the future. We may think we know what’s coming, but we don’t. We see it, or think we do, but we cannot truly grasp it until it arrives. That which flows downstream is our history, our memories, the tapestry of who we have been. It carries all we have seen, felt, and done. And where we stand, here at the water’s edge, is the present. Watching the water, listening to its music, feeling the cool swirl at our feet—this is the now. The eddies and ripples mirror our thoughts, drifting, circling, occasionally still.
And perhaps the river teaches us something more nuanced than the oft-repeated “live in the moment.” A friend once offered an intriguing thought—that only someone with dementia truly lives solely in the moment.
It made me pause. There is merit in the observation. But I’ve come to believe that “being present in the moment” is a more expansive, conscious act. It's not about forgetting the past or future—it’s about anchoring oneself deeply in the now while still honoring both.
As children, many of us were told to finish our chores before we could run outside and play. It was an unspoken lesson that joy came after the work. So we did the dishes while dreaming of the backyard, we made our beds while plotting our afternoon adventures. And this mindset followed us into adulthood. We brush our teeth while thinking about breakfast. We do the laundry while planning our weekend. We work jobs with our minds always on what we’ll do when we’re finally off the clock.
But what if we could shift that? What if brushing our teeth became a moment of gratitude—for having them, for our health? What if doing the dishes became an act of appreciation—for the meal, the hands that shared it, the water that cleans? What if we learned to be in each moment—not racing toward the next, but rooted in the now?
But being present is more than just a discipline—it is a kind of music. To be present is to stop and truly hear the melody of a morning as it begins. It is to listen to birdsong before the world stirs, or to let the hush of gentle rain wrap around you like a familiar tune. It is to feel the warmth of sunlight as it touches your face or to follow the slow dance of shadows on the wall. Even in silence, there is music—in the rhythm of our breath, the pulse of our hearts, the quiet thoughts that drift across our minds like refrains of remembered songs. These moments, so easy to miss, are where the soul finds harmony. This is the music of the present—and it plays for us always, if only we choose to listen.
The river doesn’t hurry. It flows. And as I stand by it, I am reminded to do the same.
There is a presence in this flow, a holiness even, that invites reverence. It invites me to pause—not to escape the world, but to fully step into it. The river, in its quiet persistence, asks me not to watch my life go by as if I were standing on the shore, but to wade in, feel the current, and know that this, this moment, is sacred.
"A river seems a magic thing. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself." ~Laura Gilpin
~Wylddane
Rivers, as powerful and dynamic natural forces, have long been revered by cultures across the world. They are ever-moving, never static. Their courses shift and bend, erode and build, always responding to the land around them. In this way, rivers become teachers. They remind us that life is never still—that change is not only inevitable, but natural. The current of a river doesn't fight its path; it flows with it, adapting around rock and root, deepening here, quickening there. In doing so, it shows us the value of flexibility and persistence.
The river supports countless forms of life. Trees lean in close to drink from it, fish dart through its shallows, birds sing above it, and humans—like me—stand beside it, absorbing its lessons. A river is not just water—it is connection. It is the thread that ties together ecosystems, stories, and generations. This too is a truth worth remembering: that we are all connected, and what happens upstream, whether in nature or in life, eventually affects the whole.
For me, rivers are a metaphor for the life journey itself. That which is upstream—hidden by a bend, still forming—is the future. We may think we know what’s coming, but we don’t. We see it, or think we do, but we cannot truly grasp it until it arrives. That which flows downstream is our history, our memories, the tapestry of who we have been. It carries all we have seen, felt, and done. And where we stand, here at the water’s edge, is the present. Watching the water, listening to its music, feeling the cool swirl at our feet—this is the now. The eddies and ripples mirror our thoughts, drifting, circling, occasionally still.
And perhaps the river teaches us something more nuanced than the oft-repeated “live in the moment.” A friend once offered an intriguing thought—that only someone with dementia truly lives solely in the moment.
It made me pause. There is merit in the observation. But I’ve come to believe that “being present in the moment” is a more expansive, conscious act. It's not about forgetting the past or future—it’s about anchoring oneself deeply in the now while still honoring both.
As children, many of us were told to finish our chores before we could run outside and play. It was an unspoken lesson that joy came after the work. So we did the dishes while dreaming of the backyard, we made our beds while plotting our afternoon adventures. And this mindset followed us into adulthood. We brush our teeth while thinking about breakfast. We do the laundry while planning our weekend. We work jobs with our minds always on what we’ll do when we’re finally off the clock.
But what if we could shift that? What if brushing our teeth became a moment of gratitude—for having them, for our health? What if doing the dishes became an act of appreciation—for the meal, the hands that shared it, the water that cleans? What if we learned to be in each moment—not racing toward the next, but rooted in the now?
But being present is more than just a discipline—it is a kind of music. To be present is to stop and truly hear the melody of a morning as it begins. It is to listen to birdsong before the world stirs, or to let the hush of gentle rain wrap around you like a familiar tune. It is to feel the warmth of sunlight as it touches your face or to follow the slow dance of shadows on the wall. Even in silence, there is music—in the rhythm of our breath, the pulse of our hearts, the quiet thoughts that drift across our minds like refrains of remembered songs. These moments, so easy to miss, are where the soul finds harmony. This is the music of the present—and it plays for us always, if only we choose to listen.
The river doesn’t hurry. It flows. And as I stand by it, I am reminded to do the same.
There is a presence in this flow, a holiness even, that invites reverence. It invites me to pause—not to escape the world, but to fully step into it. The river, in its quiet persistence, asks me not to watch my life go by as if I were standing on the shore, but to wade in, feel the current, and know that this, this moment, is sacred.
"A river seems a magic thing. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself." ~Laura Gilpin
~Wylddane
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