From the mountain top with a view straight to the sea, I can easily see the way to chart the shortest, most efficient course from peak to bay. Why then does the river below begin to curve and meander once it hits softer soil?
I know about the science of rivers. How they start out straight and become curved over time. How the current will push at a weaker bank, wearing away, swirling in, gradually pushing a bank further out. The momentum of riding the curve snakes the water toward the opposite bank to gradually wear away that bank, and so on, over and over, till the once straight flow is now a deeply meandering set of curves. That is how, but why?
The ocean water evaporates, becomes a cloud, drifts over land, falls as rain or snow, collects in rivulets that flow into streams, into rivers, back to the sea – an ever-flowing circle.
At the top of the mountain, the water is frozen, content to pause in heavy drifts, its only answer to my question the gentle melt, a trickling drip into a narrow spring. Further down, the stream gathers in size and speed and soars off cliffsides in a persistent roar of waterfall. All the way down to the sea, I can hear the river in different conversations with the land.
In its old age, the river grows longer, has more conversation, meets more life on its way. Some of the river ends up in the bellies of animals. Some of it flows into trees and plants.
Returning to the ocean is how the water circles back home, how it circles through life – but it isn’t the why of it. Only the water knows why it does what it does. If its desire is to be in relationship with the land, then the more curves, the longer the flow, the more the water sees of the land. If its desire is to feed the creatures of the planet, then this also serves. Maybe water simply wants to be a river.
I know some will say it’s not about intent, but chemistry and physics – that the water, being water, must evaporate, rain, gather, flow. But what a lifeless understanding of the birthplace of all life. You needn’t believe in a god to allow that water organized itself. (If this makes you uncomfortable, just pretend that water became the way it is on purpose, then think about how much more grateful you feel for that glass of water. Which belief makes you feel more cared for, more alive?)
So if water knows what it’s doing, then how often am I asking the wrong question on the mountain top? From my viewpoint, in a human-made world that asks me to do more, make more, spend more, and with ever increasing efficiency, it’s easy to miss the point sometimes. Thinking about how nature does her work, reminds me that efficiency is a quality, not a goal—an adjective, not a noun or verb. If I’m asking myself to chart a path and I’m looking for the shortest line from A to B, I should ask myself why that is important. Who will I not encounter, not be able to invite on my journey, if I do not take a winding route? What vistas, ideas will I never see?
In my daily work, I am at a vantage point in my organization where I can often see the shortest path from problem to solution. I am learning that if I take the straight, swift path to completion, I almost certainly arrive alone. And then I’m left trudging backward to see where others were left behind. Because I forgot whatever I am doing is about the relationships, relations, the place where water meets stone.
So many things are urgent. Time feels like a scarcity. But nature says no; the snow melt drips, the stream rushes, the river meanders; there’s time for it all. We can’t solve the crisis of the world working with the system that brought us here—using language, tools, concepts and strategies that ignore or bypass the deep, iterative wisdom of nature. I’m beginning to wonder if straight lines are only meant for very short distances and that the only true path is a long, winding one. I’m also thinking of the phrase – “it’s not the destination, but the journey” and while it feels trite, like something you’d find on artfully distressed wooden wall hanging, I can’t deny that is exactly what the river is telling me. After all, I do believe that all the wisdom we need is already all around us in the world—in the mountains, the rivers, the sea, and even—the wall hangings.