Whitewater recreation is one of those adventures. It takes a special kind of crazy to love whitewater sports, and with so many world-class whitewater streams in West Virginia, I've had the pleasure to know a lot of those crazy, wonderful people. In fact, they are some of the most passionate people I think I have ever met.
A friend shared the link to this blog post on Facebook today. I can't say that I ever had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman the author writes about - perhaps in passing when I was at college still as we did have several mutual friends.
The text below entails sadness, but beyond that sadness is one of the most beautiful pieces I've read in a long while. The analogy the author makes at the end really made me sit back and think on a lot of things.
I thought that this piece was so beautiful and thought-provoking that I wanted to share it here.
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May I Have This Dance?
by: John Bryant Baker
In an instant, there is nothing but darkness. My eyes are open, but they might as well be
shut tight. The only sensation they
provide is the feeling of water moving across and against them, causing me to
blink again and again. With each flutter
of my eyelids, I hope to see something. Still only darkness. It is not silent, but the sound around me is
dull, muted. Everything is muffled, almost
like a dream where I can’t quite make out what is going on or being said. I can feel the current swirling all around me
and against me, moving me. The river
feels like hands on my back and shoulders, standing over me, pushing me down
from above. My body presses against the
riverbed. I can feel the worn rocks on
the backs of my legs and in the small of my back. I reach out with my hands, out in front of my
face and above my head. It seems that the
tips of my fingers have gained some heightened sense of awareness. Smooth and worn, but not featureless, my
hands move across the underside of a large boulder. I can feel its variations and
intricacies. The more I move my hands,
the more of this rock I feel. Then
suddenly, a flash in my mind, a thought, a memory.
Sitting around a
campfire, my bare feet are propped up on a stone fire ring. Friends are in camp chairs all around, some
with beer in hand, their feet mimicking mine.
My wife sits next to me. Her
long, straight sandy-brown hair hangs down past her shoulders, framing her
face. The flames dance in her deep, dark
eyes. We have sat like this a thousand
times over: telling stories, laughing, debating. But this memory is specific, for one of our
topics this night happened to be death. “How
would you go, if you could choose?” Most
responded with answers like “quickly” or “in my sleep.” A climber friend of mine joked about it happening on impact. Not necessarily the
most peaceful, but definitely quick. But
then I gave my answer, different from all the rest. I knew the ways I did not want to die. I had seen an aunt die after dealing with
cancer for years, her husband and two daughters having ridden an emotional and
exhausting roller coaster that I cannot even begin to fathom. I had a grandparent who physically and
mentally deteriorated from Parkinson’s and dementia.
The last time I saw her I am fairly sure she
had no idea who I was. Or maybe she did,
but she just had no way of showing it.
Saddening while simultaneously frustrating. I did not want something drawn out. I did not
want to get sick. So when it came to me around
the campfire that night, my preferred method of departure was to drown. I have spent over a decade, more than a third
of my life, working on rivers. I figured
that if I died from drowning, that meant that up until the moment I passed, I was
doing what I loved, and I liked the idea of that. I remember even half heartedly joking that if
I lived long enough to be a worn, salty, decrepit old man, that I might just
take one last trip down the river and find a rock to stuff myself under. Well, it was a few decades sooner than I
would have liked, but here I was.
As my hands
continued to move back and forth, my fingertips had assumed the role of my eyes
and searched for an exit. The
realization came to me, surprisingly matter-of-factly, “I’m gonna die under
this rock.” I did not feel scared or
sad. I did not begin to struggle or
fight. It wasn't that I consciously
choose to not feel or do those things. I
just . . . didn’t. And then, like being
awakened from an extremely involved and intricate dream, my now highly sensitized
hands felt something new, air. My eyes
quickly opened to notice light shining through the water above, and I went
after it with everything I had. Just as
abruptly as it had begun, it was over, and I was breathing deeply again.
Last night I learned
of the passing of fellow paddler, a river guide I had the opportunity to work
with and had come to befriend, admire, and respect. It would be an understatement to say he was
well known throughout the “river community.” A guide and instructor, world-class
professional kayaker, and mentor to so many, he was diagnosed with cancer, and
within a few weeks, suddenly he’s gone.
I remember every time we would see each other out on the river, Brian
would make an effort to paddle his raft of people over to mine, and tell the
folks in my boat, “You guys don’t know how lucky you are. You’re getting to boat with one of the best
river guides I know. I really hope you
appreciate him.” Now, there is no
telling how many different crews of paddlers he would say that to while on the
river, probably more than anything to help out a fellow guide with a tip at the
end of the day. But never the less, it
always made me feel special. Here was
this guy, 10 times the boater I’d ever be, and he would make it a point to
compliment me, to build me up.
More often than
not, death can be so damn frustrating and seems so pointless, such a
waste. If Brian would have been sitting
around the fire that night, I know for sure he would not have chosen “cancer in
my 30s.” I stayed up most of the night,
as many others did I am sure. The
recirculating and unanswerable question of “Why?” came back again and again,
and with each pass it made, I could feel the tension and frustration build. My head would spin, mind jumping from one
memory to the next, and my chest would tighten and my breathing become slightly
strained. I tossed and turned and sat up
for hours, heart heavy and unsettled.
But as the first morning light began to make its way through the clouds
and whispers of the night’s rain dropped off the leaves, I began to realize I
had been completely missing the point.
Death had become a distraction, and I had allowed it to garner all my
attention. “How would I die if I could
choose?” is the wrong question. The more
important, relevant question is “How will I live?” because that I can
choose. I have very little control over
how I leave this spinning ball of rock and water, and maybe that is what’s so
frustrating about it. But I have
complete control over what I do with the time I’m given here.
I think back on
all the experiences I’ve had and the things I’ve learned from my time on the
river. In the beautiful whirling messes of
waves and whitewater, there is way more out of my control than in it. And yet I know there are a few certain things
I do have control over, things that I can do.
Distractions are crashing and calling all around, trying to steal my
attention, but if I remain focused on where I want to go, and the little things
I can do to help myself get there, then I can find myself so immersed in the moment
that time almost stands still. In the
midst of chaos, waves building and breaking and exploding off the rocks of the
riverbed, I can dance with one of the most powerful things on earth, and, even
if only for a fleeting moment, be a part of something beautiful.
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