The River

I can not help remembering the river. It was no big or wild one, but still it was the river - the more I think of it, the more I come to believe - unlike any other. It sort of came from the mountains, over the hill and then passed directly through the forest and yet flowed so peacefully all along its path. The water was clear, and mostly cold, the stones were all somehow shining from the bottom of the river and there were also tiny little fish living their joyful life in it where the mountain met the hill. No one ever bothered to look for either end of the river, for it was of no matter. The most important was the very existence of the river and the life it brought to us. It was the river that mattered, not its origin nor its destination.



I always remember the majestic feeling of watching the water flow. We used to go to the river and watch it in silence for an hour, then the music would begin, a soft, mellow melody of the souls. No one ever seemed to be in a hurry during the ritual, so slowly some would take off their cloths to join the river while others would light fire where the musicians played and the singers went on singing. Then the naked dancers would get in the water, let the kind and merry water take away all fear and despair. The other group of dancers were the fire dancers, who would first be baptized in the river by the river dancers and then, soaked in water as they were they would join the flames to keep the harmony between the flowing water and the burning flames. No one wanted to give in to sleep in such a night.

I know of no voice more familiar to me than that of the river and no face smiling as magnificently with the joy of all living souls as the path of the river through our lands. I can not help remembering the river over and over, not since I was obliged to leave its site for years now. All that I can still wish for, is for my body to reunite with the river after life ceases to flow through it, so that maybe my soul would also be blessed with joining the river.