It is snowing in the
desert, favorite few short days of the year when my dog and I take the first
walk of the morning in snow untouched by human feet, although there will be
many imprints from the passage of rabbits and coyotes. But more than the desert
snow, I inhale deep the new scents juniper trees and various bushes let escape
with the moisture. And I follow the patchouli and sandalwood invitation like a
young man would follow after the New Year’s dance.
Then, and often inspired
by the aquatic transformation of the desert, upon return, I pick up a book. And
my dog sleeps at the bottom of my couch.
This morning, I thought
of a poem by Khalil Gibran titled “The River Cannot Go Back”. It is not written
in the usual Gibranesque style, but the philosophy found in “The Prophet” is
there.
Here is the poem:
It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.
She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.
And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.
But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.
Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.
The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that’s where the river will know
it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.
The message is
philosophical, didactic, and inspirational with a touch of fatalism. Yet, as I reread
this poem at various stages of my life, the meaning seems to change when I
ponder about the relationship of rivers and seas as a metaphor. I have lived in
more than a desert around the globe; I was born on the shores of the bluest
sea, and have fly casted for trout in many rivers and streams. In every instance, I
have found a philosophy of existence and an identity that has influenced my
personal outlook to an order of harmony associated with the journey through the
environments and moments, rather than their transformation into a destination.
Interestingly, while
rivers do not originate from bodies of seas, the concept of a river flowing
into the sea always seemed to suggest a return of sort, of becoming one with
the sea, or even changing its identity by becoming the sea itself.
And that realisation brought
back a few lines from Joachim Du Bellay, a 16th century French Renaissance
poet and the sonnet XXX1 published in 1558 which is still taught in schools
although it was written in Middle French and titled “Heureux qui comme Ulysse”.
This is one of the
poems I had learned in secondary school. I could recall only the first stanza,
perhaps because it had influenced me most – the finding of what matters most
after learning from any long voyage.
Here is the first
stanza:
Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a
fait un beau voyage,
Ou comme cestuy-là qui conquit la toison,
Et puis est retourné, plein d’usage et raison,
Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge!
(Happy he who like
Ulysses has returned successful from his travels,
or like he who sought the Golden Fleece,
Then returned, wise to the world
Live amongst his family to the end of his days!)
When I first learned
the lines of this poem, “Parents” meant
what it would mean to a young reader – mother, father, family. But today,
re-reading Gibran and counting the years since I was in secondary school, I
wondered if the sea was the parent to the river. After all, the long voyage of
days often makes us become our parents (2).
But, when our inner rivers get re-routed through of voyage of days, do we become what we always were? Do we find ourselves after trying to be what we were expected to be? Even when the river flows into the sea, can its waters still keep their “riverness” even if the dream of every sea has always been in those rivers’ riverbed?
I believe that every sea and ocean harbor the dream of, at least once, experiencing what rivers and stream feel in spring when the snow melts on the mountains and rushes down to fill those lesser bodies of water with the joy of rejuvenation and promise.
… It is snowing
outside. The bird feeder, lonesome and cold, awaits for spring to welcome birds
of all feather and their song.
And my dog patiently snores
next to my couch.
March 8, 2025
© Vahé A. Kazandjian,
2025
(1) https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2021/03/saint-exupery-shakespeare-and-armenian.html
(2) https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2024/01/jamais-vu-when-familiar-becomes-unknown.html
(3) https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2013/11/boussole.html
