On the way into work this morning, I stopped off, as I occasionally do, at my favorite little stretch of the Swift River, studded with lacy trees, briskly running a glassy, cool green. Five minutes sitting by one particular noisy riffle there always lifts my spirits.
Friends will sometimes disappoint you, even let you fall, hard. Pivotal, beloved parents fall ill and face death. Clients can come in one after the other, complaining, and looking to lay blame. Tornadoes can even lay waste in the middle of bucolic New England. But the river, the water, pushes on and on. The burbling, glooping and whooshing have been going on in that one tiny spot for ten thousand years -- that's maybe four hundred thousand perfect spring mornings like this one, cool breezes in the glade, warm sun peeking through the leaves, river singing its song a few feet away.
Life goes sour for a time, but the river persists. Beauty persists. Life persists.