The River Can Not Go Back – Khalil Gibran

 

 

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.

 I have often written ⁽¹⁾ about how the desert changes under snow and rain. I find it wonderful that a vast and at first look uneventful space has been home to so many sensations, a way of life to so many cultures, and an invitations for our inner rivers to find their way.

 

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 16^th 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