Zen & the art of whatever water rafting

I was in a Zoom meeting the other evening and the facilitators closing slide was the 4-line poem by John O’Donohue.

I would love to live
As the river flows
Carried by the surprise
Of its own unfolding

 
I love this poem. But this time it set me thinking about how the river actually flows and how it is not all romantic, even, gentle summer movement.
 
Fifteen years ago I went white-water rafting for the first time (and probably the last), down the Nile, starting from Jinja in Uganda. Life-vests on, helmets secured and paddle in hand, I climbed into this rubber raft with eight others. So far so good. The river was flowing beautifully and the iconic scenery was awe inspiring. 
 
Of course, the whole point of white-water rafting is that the serene river also has white water – anything from bumpy rocks, to rapids, to waterfalls and each one is given a different grade of scariness and risk. The first sight of white-water for us were moderate rapids. A slight roll of the boat, a little lift up of the front, a twist or two, some rocking side to side. A few screams, the likes of which you get at an amusement funfair and then it all calms down.
 
These white-water waterfalls are called waterfalls because…the water falls. It flows in a whole different way! It actually falls. And you fall too.
 
We had suddenly hit one of those. Our pilot thought it was great fun. The boat lunged upwards, crashed downwards, it twisted violently in a half circle around jutting-out rocks and the rush and the gravity. Then it reared right up, and crashed down again, but this time upside down! Everyone was thrown out of the raft on impact. We all went under the water and then came back up. Except I came back up underneath this fast moving, now right-way-up, boat. There was no cavity to surface into to catch your breath and your bearings, like you see in the films. I was under water, trapped and caught in this flowing turmoil. I tried to feel my way to the edge of the raft, in order to then pull myself onto the daylight side of my trap. The problem was that the way the water flows is that nothing stands still. You are moving to safety, but he raft is moving too, so you are never where you think you are. Panic began to grip me as I attempted to breathe and survive. It was terrifying. I went right under for the third time, still trapped and now convinced that this would be my Death On The Nile.
 
Suddenly I saw light and surfaced, gasping for breath. Traumatised. And quietly aware that no one had known that I had been trapped under the raft. They hadn’t been looking for me. Everyone, now safely back in the raft, settled down to the rhythm and the flow. I was still in shock.
 
We flowed on for hours more. More rapids, but not so traumatising and miles of wider, open, strong, but steady flow. We climbed over the side of the raft, while the pilot stayed, and let ourselves freely flow in the current of the Nile, held only by our life vests. Warm, wild, embraced on both banks by scenes of villagers washing their clothes, playing and fishing, in exactly the same way they will have done for thousands of years.
 
So, how does the river actually flow in our lives when it is carried by the surprise of its own unfolding?
 
Sometimes gentle
Sometimes bumpy
Sometime exhilarating, but seemingly safe
Sometimes out of control
Sometimes risky

Always vulnerable

Sometimes we feel like we are going to be overwhelmed
Sometimes we get to look death in the eye
Sometimes we feel like we barely make it
Sometimes we are awed with beauty
Sometimes we just feel part of a larger, ancient story
Sometimes we feel held
Sometimes we feel a little Zen
 
But always,
            We are moving
                        And changing
                                    And going somewhere.
 
This is the surprise of the river of life’s unfolding.