At The Riverside

There is something ancient about rivers.

They wind through time like veins through the body of the earth. They’ve carried prayers, songs, ashes, and bodies. They’ve shaped civilizations and whispered the secrets of movement and surrender to anyone willing to listen. In the gospel and in reggae, in stories from the ancestors and songs sung in longing, we hear a recurring wisdom:

“Leave your burdens at the riverside.”

It’s no accident that this image appears again and again across traditions. Something in us knows — deep in our bones — that the river is not just a body of water. It is a teacher. A mirror. A sacred invitation.

The River as Life Itself

To live fully is to be in the flow — the river of life. But the flow isn’t just ease or pleasure. It’s movement. It’s unpredictable. Sometimes slow and meandering. Sometimes raging and wild. But always alive. And to be in it, we must be willing to let go.

You can’t enter the river of life still clinging to your suitcase of grievances.

You can’t open to the current while dragging the anchors of yesterday behind you.

You can’t dance with the waters if your hands are full of “what ifs,” “not enoughs,” and “should haves.”

And so — the riverside.

The place where you stop.

Take a breath.

Kneel, maybe.

And choose to lay it down.

Not because the problems aren’t real. Not because you don’t have responsibilities or heartbreak. But because the river requires something different. It asks for your presence. Your trust. Your willingness to move.

The Practice of the Riverside

This weekend it struck me — this is a practice, not just a poetic line.

What if we actually did it?

What if, each time we approached our day, our work, our relationships — we imagined standing at the edge of the river?

What if we could see our burdens, name them, and place them gently down?

The worry about your mother’s health.

The story that you’re too late, too much, or not enough.

The fear about money.

The tension in your shoulders. The heartbreak you’re still carrying.

What if we said:

“I’m not throwing you away. I’m not denying you.

But for now, I’m going into the water.

And you can wait here, on the bank, while I remember who I am.”

Because sometimes, to remember who we are, we must step in.

Step into what is moving.

Step into what is alive.

Step into the place where the mind can’t control, where plans don’t matter, where the water kisses the skin and the current carries you into something you couldn’t have predicted — and couldn’t have gotten to by standing still.

Becoming the River

This is not escapism. It’s not bypassing.

It’s resourcing.

Because when we re-emerge from the river — from the dance, the meditation, the laughter, the prayer, the walk, the rest, the surrender — we’re not the same. We’re lighter. We’re clearer. We might even find that some of the burdens we left behind have dissolved in the time it took to float a little farther downstream.

And sometimes we go back and pick them up, yes. But we hold them differently.

We carry them with grace. Or not at all.

Because the truth is, we are not our burdens.

We are not the things that happened to us.

We are not the stories we’ve clung to in order to feel safe.

We are the river.

We are life, moving.

And the riverside will always be there. A quiet teacher. A sacred threshold.

Waiting for us to kneel, release, and return.

Ritual: Laying It Down at the Riverside

You don’t need to live by a river to honour the riverside.

You can meet it wherever you are — in your bedroom, in a forest, at your altar, in the car before a meeting. All it takes is your willingness to pause and remember that you are not your burdens, and that you have the power to lay them down.

Here is a simple ritual to return yourself to flow:

1. Find a quiet space. - Sit or stand. Place your feet on the ground. Close your eyes, or soften your gaze. Breathe deeply.

2. Visualize a river in front of you. - See it. Feel it. Hear it. Is it still and reflective? Rushing and roaring? Gentle and winding? Let the river appear as it wants to.

3. Gather your burdens. - One by one, call them forward. Name them. Feel where they live in your body. No need to fix, judge, or understand — just let them be seen.

4. Set them down. - In your mind’s eye, place each burden gently at the riverside. Speak it aloud if you can: “I lay you down now. You are not mine to carry into the water. I will return if needed, but for now, I choose to flow.”

5. Step into the river. - Take a breath. Imagine stepping into the water. Let it move around you, through you. Feel what it is to be held. To surrender. To flow.

6. Return, renewed. - When you are ready, step back from the river. Stretch. Wiggle your fingers. Carry only what serves. Leave the rest for the river to cleanse.

Repeat this ritual as often as needed. You may find that over time, fewer burdens come back with you. Or that the river shows you new ways to hold what once felt heavy.

Closing: Come to the Water

We don’t always get to choose what arrives at our feet. But we always get to choose how we meet it.

And sometimes, the wisest thing we can do is pause before the plunge —

to meet the riverside with reverence,

to unshoulder what isn’t ours,

and to step, freely, into life.

The river is always waiting.

Come as you are.

But come willing to lay it down.