A River Runs Through It*

"Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters."

Norman Maclean

As I took these pictures onna warm day in June, I thought of the peace I felt standing under the canopy of trees that shaded the ruins of the old mill by this spot on the small creek at my feet.

As I looked at the covered bridge a number of yards away I could almost hear the clatter of hooves and creak of wooden wheels as the wagons loaded with grain were brought across to be milled into flour or grits. Peace has often been challenging to find on the journey along this path called widowhood. Occasionally, it is still transitory and elusive.

Listening as the water rushed across the stones, I remembered times past when I was dead certain I could not possibly breathe one more moment without Jim in my life. I often felt as crushed as the grains being transformed into fine powder by the massive grindstones of the mill.

Staring down the dark expanse of the bridge’s interior I was reminded of how my grief often felt as if I were in a tunnel which had no end. Plodding blindly forward, I eventually came to the place that always appears in a tunnel where a small light can be seen. Slowly, the constant constriction of my throat from stifling the near animal angst I felt seemed to ease slightly and I felt as if I could walk on without stumbling so much. Stepping gingerly again into the light my eyes needed time to adjust to the new surroundings as I finally emerged on what now seems like the other side of this grief and my acceptance of the new and radically altered life I never asked for appeared on the other side.

Just as the road from the fields to the mill is often long and full of ruts, so has the journey down this long dark tunnel of grief been. I have been transformed same as the grain into something different from where I started.

Yet, through all the darkness, pain and tears, a river of life and love, though changed beyond measure, has tumbled along beside me. It will abide so long as I breathe upon this earth ever reshaping me as the stones of the mill relentlessly grind the farmer’s grains into dust.

The peace may sometimes yet fade and be hard to regain as certain days come and go throughout my life. However, the river of Jim’s love will always run through me as I walk the redesigned path carved from the grief that once enveloped me day and night.

*Title borrowed from the book by Norman Maclean