Like a Leaf on the Current

"Avoid the holes!" Greg yells. 

I awkwardly slap the Colorado River with my paddle, effectively turning my kayak — sideways. Ahead is a stretch of fast moving water and beyond that, rapids. I have no clue what he's talking about, let alone what to avoid.

"What holes?!" I shout. 

"See up ahead where the rapids drop? That's a hole! If you get sucked in, you could drown." 

I immediately regret not You-Tubing "river rafting basics" prior to getting out on the water. Now it's too late. 

Thankfully, the stretch of river we're on is not particularly dangerous or fast. The conditions are about as ideal as you can get for learning how to kayak. But there are nuances that would have been helpful for me to know. It looks so effortless when others do it. There are much older, less athletic people paddling down the river this afternoon. Why shouldn't I be able to manage a "ducky"? 

Yes, the rubber kayak I'm paddling is called a "ducky." As if that's not enough to shame me into bravery, there is also the desire to not appear to be a total weeny in front of my boyfriend and my 19-year-old son. Plus, I'm just too prideful to abandon ship and swim to shore, so I slowly move the kayak forward and embrace whatever is coming next on this new adventure. 

I'm 58, and although I was blessed with a healthy body, I've never been particularly athletic or courageous. My previous rafting experience consisted of climbing in an oversized boat with friends and plenty of beer and little threat of danger. In many ways, throughout my life I've avoided all risk of injury and peril. 

I tend to live in my head. But on the river, thoughts can be as problematic as haystacks — if you allow them to consume you. Panicking is the worst thing you can do if your kayak begins careening out of control. Fortunately, I don't have time to panic. All I can do is go with the flow — and pray. 

Within moments, I my ducky is drawn into the swift churning current.  Technically I'm in "white water"  (although it's probably a Class I or II). And yet, its intensity is palpable. There is plenty that could suddenly go wrong. But it isn't the rushing water I need to fear. As Winston Churchill so famously said,  it is "fear itself" that's my worst enemy. 

As I hit the first white capped wave, I receive a sensory-awaking blast of cold water across my legs. The roar of the rapids engulfs me. In an instant, the strong current tosses my ducky sideways. My hands tighten round the paddle as I try to counter the rapid's motion ... and effectively turn the boat in the opposite direction. Now, I'm careening backwards through the current. Great.

The Colorado River is a great teacher. 

My mind races. Greg shouts instructions that are inaudible over the din of the rapids. My effort to paddle only serves to make things worse. For a moment, the boat lists over, taking on more water. 

Then a thought comes to me: "Stop struggling. Let the river take you where it wants you to go." 

I lift my paddle from the roiling water and surrender. I allow the river to toss me like a leaf on the current. I loosen my grip on the paddle along with my fears. The ducky turns sideways again, but at least now I can observe what's ahead. I can see I'm nearing the end of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. 

As the waves lessen, I'm able to straighten the nose of my kayak and paddle to the calm water ahead. I am at once relieved and disappointed that the white water portion is over. There's something humbling and empowering about willingly handing yourself over to forces beyond your control. Nature is a great teacher. I've ignored Her for too long. 

Most of my life, I've managed to remain safely on the shore. And yet, how many times have I been tossed about by life's turbulent waters? Hidden haystacks have sucked me under, leaving me afraid to move forward. 

I tend to live in my head, which can be super helpful when I'm composing a story — and downright dangerous when I'm faced with real physical peril. There have been too many times in my life when I over-responded to hazards and made matters worse. 

Too often when I've relied upon my mind to figure things out, my thoughts have sent me spinning in circles. When I remain centered and present, difficulties tend to wash over me with minimal impact. 

Sitting on a mediation cushion, I've learned a lot about how my mind works. In the safety of the dharma center, I've listened to many wise lessons. But the Colorado may be the greatest guru of all.