Life is a River

I do not like dying. None of us do, I suppose. Every time someone or something we love dies, part of us dies with them. I also don’t like changes.




Whenever I return to Yosemite, or to any favorite place in nature, I want those places to look exactly the same. I want the scenic views that inspire me, and I want those mountains, forests, or rivers to make me feel alive. 

Invariably, however, they have changed in some way. I can’t stop them from doing this. The spring floods have shifted the course of the river, and my favorite place on the riverbank has been washed away. A favorite tree has grown old and fallen over, and I’m left staring at its trunk on the ground.

After my wife Evelyn died, I also wanted to preserve every aspect of my life with her, yet I suspected that if I was focused on the past, I would miss seeing what life was doing now. Trying to stop my own life from changing was like trying to hold back the flow of the Merced River with my hands. Although I didn’t want to change, I knew had to make adjustments.

I do not like it when the air turns cold in autumn, leaves fall off the trees, and the woods turn brown and bare. Because of the luscious, somnambulant green of summer, I’m not a fan of muted brown, and turn away from the window thinking that life has ended outside and there is nothing more to see. 




Yet, when the leaves are gone, I can see further into the woods and notice a barred owl sitting on a branch, deer moving down by the creek, and the sunset lighting up the bare trees in the woods. The brown colors are warm and inviting, and the scent of autumn makes me think of deeper and eternal matters.




Then snow falls and changes the personality of the woods again, this time into a stunning landscape of white canvas accented with black brushstrokes, and its quietness astounds me. I forget about autumn as I fall in love with winter, and I will not want it to change into spring. And then it does.

In spring, the rivers in Yosemite fill up with snow that has recently melted in the highlands. From the middle of Mirror Meadow, I delight when I find that I have a clear view of Half Dome rising 5000 feet above me without the trees blocking my view, and I watch the climbers that have returned to the valley slowly making their way to the top. In the time before summer visitors arrive, the valley is a cathedral of peace.

Hiking around, I discover that one of my favorite trails is also gone because of rockslides. This forces me to scout out a new trail and I discover places in the valley that I never knew existed.

I’ve come to look forward to the changes in nature. The newness keeps me on my toes, and I read each new chapter in the life of the meadow, the river, and the forest with excitement. I discover the brightness of wonder, and how it continues to evolve.

As I say goodbye to one season, I also say hello to the beauty and presence of the next.

Nothing is permanent in life. We are all changing. May we evolve in ways that make us more patient and kind. May we love as much as we can, and never stop exploring.