Are you fascinated by rivers? I am. In my first year of university, I spent the summer working and improving my French in Paris, and I spent countless hours absorbed by the Seine sitting by its side. A couple of summers later, in Geneva, I had to cross the Rhône every day, and again I was hooked. Maybe that is where my obsession comes from. Later, I would be equally enamored of the Danube, Tajo, Duero, Ebro, the Mississippi, Tiber, Guadalquivir, and, of course, Boston’s Charles River.

One of my favorite poems of all time is Jorge Manrique’s Coplas por la muerte de su padre, in particular the third stanza:

Nuestras vidas son los ríos

que van a dar en la mar,

que es el morir:

allí van los señoríos,

derechos a se acabar

y consumir;

allí los ríos caudales,

allí los otros medianos

y más chicos;

y llegados, son iguales

los que viven por sus manos

y los ricos.

In fact, when someone passes, I often say the first line, “Nuestras vidas son los ríos,” to those near the person, because it helps me understand life, although Celia hates it when I say it in those circumstances. (You can read a bad essay on it (in Spanish) that I wrote for my PhD, here)

Although I had read Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha years ago, I recently re-read it. It is beautiful, especially the part about the river and the protagonist’s relationship with the river.

Why am I rambling? Because I recently went to Cincinnati and had the beautiful experience of meeting the handsome and mighty Ohio River. But don’t believe me, it was the Seneca (Iroquoian) people who called it the ohiːyo’, the good river, the great river. It did not disappoint. I was enthralled, as I was with the Seine, the Rhone, and so many others.

So if you have the opportunity, spend some time with a river, listen to it, and understand that it is the same river from the first drop in the mountain to the ocean, yet it is always a different river. You are welcome.

“But out of all secrets of the river, he today only saw one, this one touched his soul. He saw: this water ran and ran, incessantly it ran, and was nevertheless always there, was always at all times the same and yet new in every moment! Great be he who would grasp this, understand this! He understood and grasped it not, only felt some idea of it stirring, a distant memory, divine voices.”

― Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha