learning from the river

Last Updated on August 6, 2025

I spent several hours over the past two days immersed in the Yuba River. I visited two different spots along the river, returning again and again to the water and the rocks as my teachers.

I explored the shallow water, pulling myself forward with my arms like an alligator—my head just above the surface, my hands exploring the riverbed, moving parallel to the stones below. Sometimes I dipped my face just enough that the waterline came to the bottom of my eyes. Once or twice, I opened my eyes underwater and looked straight at the bottom: clear, shimmering water over smooth, colorful stones.

I felt into the differences—above water, below water, fully submerged, partially submerged. The sensation of my hands exploring the stones that sat just under the surface versus the dramatic curves of those that jutted out of the river. Large boulders, riverbank rocks, pebbles that moved with the flow, palm-sized stones that fit perfectly in my hand.

The river taught me. I learned through feeling.

I floated in stillness, I moved as if practicing Tai Chi, I felt the different intensity of the currents—sometimes pushing, pulling, or redirecting me. I felt the shift in my body from water to land, that moment when you can no longer float and must stand. The return of gravity. The weight of my body rediscovering on the Earth. I kept moving between these states—weightless in the river, grounded on the shore.

I watched my hands moving through the water. Noticed how they shimmered, how the water clung gently, then became droplets when I lifted them out. I saw my limbs glow beneath the surface. I studied the way the light touched everything—bright in the sun, dusky in the shade, and softened after sunset.

After the sun dipped behind the trees, the rocks still radiated warmth. I melted into them. There’s always a rock shaped just right to cradle my body. I lay on a perfectly curved granite boulder, my back arched, arms splayed, chest open. My whole body softened, melting into the stone. I felt so loved by this boulder—the kind of love that washes you smooth over years and years.

I felt like a starfish hugging the rock.

And then I had a vision—not of lying on the rock, but of carrying it. A heavy boulder on my back. How exhausting, unsustainable, crushing that felt. Then I imagined flipping it—placing the boulder on the ground, and myself on top. Letting it hold me instead.

Suddenly, it was no longer heavy. No longer a burden. I was weightless again. At peace.

It reminded me of depression—that sensation of being buried under a pile of bricks at the bottom of a deep well. That impossible feeling of trying to move all the bricks just to climb out. But maybe the key isn’t to climb. Maybe the invitation is to turn around, to keep going down—through to the other side.

Let the weight push you out, like birth.

There’s freedom in that shift. A different way forward. One that doesn’t require so much pushing. One that listens instead of forcing. One that follows the way water does it: taking the path of least resistance.

I thought of the plant medicines—how generously they show us another way. How their wisdom isn’t forceful but patient, rooted, relational. When we don’t know how to do it differently, we can ask them. We can listen. We can watch how nature does it. How water flows. How the plants bend toward the light. How stones soften over time.

There are so many versions of the same story. So many truths. So many attempts at giving and receiving love. And so much that gets lost in misunderstanding—when we can’t see someone else’s perspective, when we don’t know what they’ve lived through. The hurt that builds. The grudges we carry. The stories we hold like shields.

But then I return to the river.
To water.
To listening.

And I remember the beauty of immersion—being fully in my own experience and allowing others to have theirs too. Children laughing, playing, jumping, fishing, shrieking. Adults chatting, drinking, yelling at their kids to stay safe over and over. Everyone in the same river, making the most of the day.

Sometimes I want the whole river to myself. And sometimes it’s like that—after the sun goes down and most others leave. But other times, I’m sharing the space, and there’s so much beauty in that too. People are part of nature. No less sacred.

Parents loving their kids the best they can. Managing tantrums, sunburns, hunger, thirst. Juggling desire and fatigue and joy and frustration. No one getting it quite right, but everyone showing up. Everyone trying. Everyone bringing their own stories to the water.

It’s all part of the perfect process of a beautiful day.

And I’m grateful for it all.

One year ago, in this same river, I wrote:

“I lay on my back half submerged in this river, cradled by warm, smooth granite. This is one of my favorite ways to feel the heartbeat of the river. The swift current comes underneath and through me in pulses. I start to know the specific vibration of myself and the water in this moment. There’s something for me to understand about the momentum of life force that is fed and nurtured by water. I’m lost in the bliss and beauty of the moment. They are part of me forever.”

“How long did I wait to be held and suspended in the heart of the river? How long did that ancient stone formation wait to be in contact with my body? The river draws me in, holds my gaze, absorbs me, and lets me go. Always different, always the same, always magic.”

I see now: it’s a relationship. Me and the river.
Year after year, we meet again.
Each time, it teaches me how to be alive.