A woman. By a river. Indestructible.

I haven’t been by the river in well over a year, the Chama River, where my late husband's ashes flow and where we spent so much time as a young couple. But I think of it often. I like to think Brian’s ashes are still there, flowing and clinging, though it has been over seven years since the kids and I threw most of his ashes into this wild river. The water itself isn’t much to look at, muddy from erosion, it is surpassed in beauty by the curves of its container and the multi-colored cliffs and mountains that rise and hold the land in northern New Mexico, just a mile west of Ghost Ranch, aka Georgia O-Keefe territory. Yet, it is remarkable water.

The last time I went to the Chama, on what would have been Brian’s 58th birthday, I lay as close as possible to the edge, finding a flat outcropping of rocks to stretch out on my back. I closed my eyes to focus on the sound of the water, made louder by its volume and urgency. Opening my eyes, I rolled over and watched the water closest to me, where it pooled up, resting in little protective spaces along the edge, then into the current once again. It reminded me of new skaters on the edge of a roller rink, holding on to the edge for dear life (Life), then, taking a deep breath, letting go, stumbling a bit but moving on, just like the water catches a stick or two, some stacked rocks, a little mud, then flows on to join the current.

As I read the first poem in Poetry Unbound*—Wonder Woman by Ada Limón—I parse this line: A woman. By a river. Indestructible. While the author** describes surviving life with chronic pain, I think of resilience borne of grief and fast-moving currents that take us without consent. Sometimes we let go willingly, not knowing how we will get through but trusting we will. I think of me, in my memory, so many times, by a river. I think of figurative currents in my life that carried me back to New Mexico. So I could witness the real rivers that keep moving, the mountains that give perspective, and the sky that is always huge, always hopeful. And heal. 

I’ve come to know that healing never ends, it ebbs and flows, shape-shifts, changing what we need and what we see along the way. Often, we are unaware of the forces that propel us forward, just that we’ve somehow moved through. At other times, we know exactly what we need or what is helping us along. Coming home to New Mexico would do wonders for my hurting soul, I knew that. And lying by the river in meditation would remind me of my resilience. A woman. By a river. Indestructible. My transforming in place has taken many turns and is often opaque, just like my beloved Rio Chama, but it keeps happening as I keep going, resting when needed and forever connected to the river’s flow.

—

*I have one or two copies of Poetry Unbound I’d love to gift. I was so taken by it and how it helped me, that I rushed and bought a dozen copies, doling them out like Bibles whenever someone expressed a slight interest. Send me a comment and let me know if you would like a copy.

**Ada Limón is the current U.S. Poet Laureate, the first Latina to hold the position, and the first to be renewed for a second term. I also discovered that her goal is “to use poetry to draw attention to the natural world, and to promote the idea that poetry can help people connect with their emotions and heal.” 🤍