The River's Promise

A River’s Promise: Finding Peace in the Unchanging Flow

This morning, as I stepped out before dawn, the world still held its breath. The sky above was an indigo velvet, dotted with a few stubborn stars lingering long after their time. The air was cool, and the promise of daybreak whispered through the trees as I walked toward the river. With each step, the turbulent whirl of the world softened, replaced by the steady rhythm of the water in front of me.

The river—how ancient it feels, how constant. Its waters ebb and flow with a quiet resolve, as they always have. No matter who sits on the throne, no matter what winds of change blow across the globe, the river continues its endless dance, undisturbed by the chaos of human affairs. I can feel it in the way my racing heart begins to slow, as if the river itself is drawing me into its calm, reminding me that this too shall pass.

Along the river’s edge, the old manor house sits dreaming, its reflection trembling in the glassy surface. High tide laps at its foundations, while at low tide, the mudflats stretch wide and empty. I imagine the monks who once walked here, their prayers rising with the mist, their lives long turned to mossy stones now scattered along the banks. Their monastery, now a faint memory, has faded into the earth, leaving only a still-eyed pond to witness what was. What remains are the quiet echoes of a time when faith and duty were as certain as the changing tides, and yet, like all things, they too are distant stories—part of a world that feels as insubstantial as the one reflected in the water.

The herons stand sentinel, their still forms seeming to hold the knowledge of centuries. The oyster catchers call out, their cries sharp and clear against the soft murmur of the water. In the depths of history, who knows? Perhaps even Jesus and Joseph of Arimathea passed this way, their boat slipping silently across the same water I now gaze upon. The land here has witnessed battles and blessings, losses and victories, the rise and fall of empires. And yet, the river remains, flowing endlessly as though it has always been, unchanged by the turmoil of human history.

There are apple trees here in the ancient orchards, gnarled and bent like wise old crones, their roots planted long ago by holy hands. Apples fall, as they have for centuries. And the river? It continues, with no need to recount the events that shaped it, no need to carry the weight of time. The stillness of the water, now stained with the soft pink of the rising sun, holds within it the certainty that this moment, too, will pass, just as all moments do. The mirrored world in the water trembles in the quiet breeze, a reminder that what seems permanent may be only a reflection of something larger, something beyond our control.

As the day starts to unfold, the sky blushes with the colors of dawn—peach, lavender, and gold spilling across the horizon, chasing away the darkness of night. The remnants of history flutter in the breeze, like the faint whispers of prayers left unanswered, or battles long forgotten. And yet, in the quiet, in the stillness of the river, I find solace.

This world may feel turbulent, unsettled, overwhelming. But in nature, in the timeless rhythms of the earth, there is a balm for our anxious hearts. The river knows this. It has always known. Its flow is an unspoken promise: the certainty that, no matter how great the storms may be, the water will rise, the sun will set, and eventually, the tide will return to claim what it has left behind. And so too, will we find our way.