Driftwood
It floats, aimlessly, down the river. Bleached white by the sun and dried all the way through from wind and heat. It serves no purpose other than to be. The occasional bird lands on it- a welcome respite from endless flight. If only the driftwood could have such leisure. True to its name, it drifts-without purpose, splendid in its anonymity.
The sound of the white water raging is faint at first. It is only a distant worry- like rolling thunder over faraway hills- weakly ominous. The wood still drifts. And floats. Drifts. And floats. No purpose. Nothing. The cool water makes tiny swirling circles at the wood’s edge, providing a fake sense of calm and tranquility- soon to become an ally of the distant raging water.
A crowned-eagle sits in his tree and watches the scene unfold below him. He watches but does nothing. He does not feel the calm drain from the heavy air. He does not know what the driftwood feels. He watches, with sweet disdain, as the bleached wood drifts towards the inevitable white water.
As deftly and silently as the eagle swoops and disappears, so too does the rapid appear for the driftwood. Although the hard wood can clearly hear the turmoil ahead, it does not flinch. It cannot. The cool water that was previously so calming holds fast to every edge- guiding the wood towards its doom.
The fierce water swells and groans. Sly to the bone, this rapid has anticipated what would happen next- deft with practice and hungry through time. The white wood is powerless to its pull and, drawn by the rapid’s hunger, moves with speed and unwanted ferocity.
On the surface, white water such as this looks oddly placid- like the bubbles in a champagne glass. Under the surface, however, rages a cruel and uneven fight between the greedy water and whatever has fallen prey to it. It’s power and strength unnoticeable but lethal.
At last, the driftwood’s approach ends and melts into the water’s attack. It gets sucked under the surface, devoid of sunlight and oxygen. It is dark and foreign under the water. The driftwood feels the pull of the current and unfamiliar pressure. Everything that the driftwood knows is gone, and replaced with a world where it does not know which way is up. Suddenly, as quickly as it got pulled under the boiling blanket of white water, the wood emerges above the surface. This, however, is not the welcome end to its struggle, but a cruel trick that the water uses to disorientate its victims. With unmatched strength, the driftwood is sucked back into darkness. It tumbles and rolls, sinking ever lower into the depth of the cold water. Everything that it knew is replaced with this feeling of nothingness. The driftwood is numb now- not wanting to know which way is up or which way is home. It anticipates the next pull, where it will sink ever deeper under the water. A sudden upward thrust forces the wood above the surface once more- shafts of sunlight blinding and further disorientating it.
This pattern continues, over and over and over again. The driftwood eventually surrenders to the angry pull of the white water. Under. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Upwards. Upwards. Bursting free. Suck. Suck. Suck. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper.
When the white water sets me free again, I hope to drift once more and bask in the glorious sun. Until that day, I will carry on fighting the darkness and nothingness of what lies beneath this raging rapid. Look for me downriver. I’ll be there, gazing at the crowned eagle and contemplating the colours of the sky.
The sound of the white water raging is faint at first. It is only a distant worry- like rolling thunder over faraway hills- weakly ominous. The wood still drifts. And floats. Drifts. And floats. No purpose. Nothing. The cool water makes tiny swirling circles at the wood’s edge, providing a fake sense of calm and tranquility- soon to become an ally of the distant raging water.
A crowned-eagle sits in his tree and watches the scene unfold below him. He watches but does nothing. He does not feel the calm drain from the heavy air. He does not know what the driftwood feels. He watches, with sweet disdain, as the bleached wood drifts towards the inevitable white water.
As deftly and silently as the eagle swoops and disappears, so too does the rapid appear for the driftwood. Although the hard wood can clearly hear the turmoil ahead, it does not flinch. It cannot. The cool water that was previously so calming holds fast to every edge- guiding the wood towards its doom.
The fierce water swells and groans. Sly to the bone, this rapid has anticipated what would happen next- deft with practice and hungry through time. The white wood is powerless to its pull and, drawn by the rapid’s hunger, moves with speed and unwanted ferocity.
On the surface, white water such as this looks oddly placid- like the bubbles in a champagne glass. Under the surface, however, rages a cruel and uneven fight between the greedy water and whatever has fallen prey to it. It’s power and strength unnoticeable but lethal.
At last, the driftwood’s approach ends and melts into the water’s attack. It gets sucked under the surface, devoid of sunlight and oxygen. It is dark and foreign under the water. The driftwood feels the pull of the current and unfamiliar pressure. Everything that the driftwood knows is gone, and replaced with a world where it does not know which way is up. Suddenly, as quickly as it got pulled under the boiling blanket of white water, the wood emerges above the surface. This, however, is not the welcome end to its struggle, but a cruel trick that the water uses to disorientate its victims. With unmatched strength, the driftwood is sucked back into darkness. It tumbles and rolls, sinking ever lower into the depth of the cold water. Everything that it knew is replaced with this feeling of nothingness. The driftwood is numb now- not wanting to know which way is up or which way is home. It anticipates the next pull, where it will sink ever deeper under the water. A sudden upward thrust forces the wood above the surface once more- shafts of sunlight blinding and further disorientating it.
This pattern continues, over and over and over again. The driftwood eventually surrenders to the angry pull of the white water. Under. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Upwards. Upwards. Bursting free. Suck. Suck. Suck. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper.
When the white water sets me free again, I hope to drift once more and bask in the glorious sun. Until that day, I will carry on fighting the darkness and nothingness of what lies beneath this raging rapid. Look for me downriver. I’ll be there, gazing at the crowned eagle and contemplating the colours of the sky.
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