the cold nibbles my hands as the birds sing their dusk-song and the yellow light dips over the hills.
the river travels, broad and mirrored, crowned with bright leaves as she dances down the banks.
all rivers are individual, tied to place and climate: Susquehanna, Chenango, Raritan. but they are also one river, the Mother of Rivers, who spilled across the land in search of knowledge — when the waters of the primal well rose up and followed her.
she gave her body and became the river. to attain knowledge, you risk the well rising up. you sacrifice yourself, become something different — losing your edges, becoming the rushing stream that feeds the trees as it flows down the hillside.
Indo-European speaking peoples often had some sort of Mother of Waters. Sarasvati, the sacred river of India who became the spiritual font of inspiration when her stream dried up in prehistoric times. Ganga, who flows down from Shiva’s hair. Yamuna, too — all the rivers in India are goddesses, sacred, part of the Mother of Waters.