The River Dream

The River Dream

Dr. Larry Taylor

In my dream, I stood by a magnificent cascading waterfall next to a river whose headwaters drew from the distant snow-capped peaks that soared so high they were often obliterated by the clouds. Yet on this day, the peaks stood clear and strong against a golden sky – lofty, majestic, unapproachable, unconquered, where God alone dwells in brilliant light that flashes prism-like off reflecting pools and downward upon treetops below.

The cataract next to which I stood roared with power and plunged 500 feet to disappear into a shroud of rainbow mist that sprayed the surrounding deciduous trees with a gentle continuous misting of pure water.

From the foam at fall’s bottom there flowed such a river as I have never before seen or imagined. It was deep, pure, crystal clear, pristine, rapidly flowing, but unthreatening.

The banks sloped to it gradually, inviting visitors to the warm, tropical-like white sands on each side. Back a few yards from its beaches were forests of aspen, birch, maple, oak, moosewood, winterberry holly, alder, hazelnut, and dogwood, mixed with exotic flora like abutilon, silk trees, paw paw, bird of paradise, Chilean fire bush, and Indian rosewood, interspersed with a variety of evergreen firs, all splendidly growing harmoniously as if they were meant to naturally inhabit the same ecosystem.

Not only did the forests contain a mixture of tropical, coastal, and old forest trees, but they were all simultaneously blooming – bursting with flowers of all colors and sizes and wafting sweet perfumes across the gentle breezes – and, while blooming, the leaves of all the deciduous trees were decked in their exquisite autumn beauty. Red, yellow, green, blue, rust, amber, and golden leaves mixed with white, red, yellow, pink, and purple flowers in a veritable garden of fragrance. There was some undergrowth – honeysuckle, mosses, ferns, and the like – but not enough to block a person from walking through.

The air around the river seemed simultaneously fresh and crisp like fall, yet warm and embracing like spring.

The other surprise was the water itself, which I dipped a foot into after hiking down from the falls. Unlike every mountain-fed river or stream I’ve encountered in this world, this one was warm – tropically warm, perhaps 80 degrees, yet clear and deep as if it had just formed from melting snow. When I say tropically warm, I do not mean balmy. There was no humidity to speak of, and the waters were cool and refreshing, but not icy or shocking. Or, perhaps the waters were icy but some sort of change had been wrought in me so that they felt refreshing, invigorating, and soothing.

Long ago before humans became sophisticated with their civilizations and cities, before smog and cars, or factories and machines, this river was discovered by a man named Wonderful, who, according to very old legends, had hiked from the distant golden-purple mountaintop and plunged into the river. After swimming in it for some time, he (again according to the old stories) hiked many miles through the forest and out across meadows of wildflowers to small family farms and quaint village greens where he told people of the river, then showed them the way. Most ignored him, others laughed at his stories, and even among those who went, many were afraid to get in the water, for the river’s current appeared swift and its waters looked icy and cold, but Wonderful himself plunged in to show those on the banks that the current would not carry them off and that the water was inviting.

Rumors spread that a fountain of youth had been discovered – a magic river that could take away sickness, disease, and where sorrows vanished. Eventually, dozens, then hundreds, then thousands journeyed through the forest and plunged into the river. Some were persecuted and mocked in their villages for wanting to go to the river, but still they traveled. Once there, they laughed and played, splashed and sang, embraced and kissed without lust. It reminded me of a child’s pool party – cannonballs, divers, waders, those treading water, and a few disciplined souls swimming laps as if training for a race.

Over time, several paths were worn through the forest and to the river, winding in from different directions, naturally following the contour of the land. Still, the way to the river was simple, and folks came barefoot, in sandals, with beach towels and umbrellas, coolers and hats. Most just played in the water all day, although a few set up camp on the shore and watched.

Years went by, and someone decided that the pathway to the river was sacred and that travelers should be shielded along their journey by a tent. So, some trees were cleared and a tent was erected about 100 yards back from the shore. Many people, especially young people, continued to ignore the tent and play in the water, but increasingly some of the older folk stayed in the tent and discussed the river, its water, and its discoverer from long ago.

A few of the tent dwellers were academic types, so they wrote books about the waters, the river, the paths leading to the river, the flora and fauna surrounding the river, and the mountains from which it came. Others objected to something or the other in the books, so they wrote their own books until it was decided to erect an adjacent tent to house all the books. On other paths, other people erected similar tents to house people and books, and there was a free exchange of ideas from tent to tent.

Decades later (or was it centuries?) someone decided that the paths to the river were so sacred that tents hardly did them justice, and so, a magnificent building was erected where the tent used to be, and a large library to house the books. Tent-dwellers on other paths saw the beautiful building and erected their own. This went on until virtually all the tents were replaced. The buildings were ornamental and rich and dedicated to the glory of the One Who Dwells in the Mountain and The One Who Showed us the Way to the River. Some of them had artificial river sounds piped in. In most of the buildings, songs about the river were sung, initially by congregations, but later mostly by robed choirs.

Gradually, at first imperceptivity, a change took place. Fewer and fewer people actually got in the river. Most were now content to stay in the magnificent buildings on their visits and hear eloquent speeches from men (they were all men back in those days) who had gone to professional schools to learn the history and biology of the river. These men knew the Latin names of the plants that grew some distance from the paths, for, you see, by now the paths had all been paved for the comfort of the river pilgrims, and the forest reduced to accommodate wide highways where carriages carried genteel ladies and gentlemen to the buildings.

The poor ignorant peasants who did not know Latin, nor could read Greek or Hebrew, were considered too unschooled to teach in the great buildings, but many of them didn’t seem to mind because, while the majority of people now stayed in the buildings, there were still those – mostly young, poor, or marginalized – who just played in the water. The proper people in the buildings smiled at them much as a wise wealthy baroness might smile at dirty little peasant children playing in the mud.

More centuries passed and disputes erupted in the buildings over which path was indeed the correct one to take to the river. Many of the path-dwellers issued statements insisting that Wonderful had taken their path to the river, and therefore, no other path was legitimate. Some even condemned those on the other roads, but while they were fighting, they all ignored the simple folk who were splashing and diving like those who originally came to the river.

In my dream, I stood on the bank, watching Africans, Asians, Latinos, drug addicts, alcoholics, prostitutes and pimps, the poor and the homeless, dance on the beaches, and dive happily into the waters, where, for the first time, many were made whole. I’m sure it was just my imagination, but I thought I caught a glimpse of smiling shepherd in the forest, laughing as he watched the people splash one another.

I turned my back to the water and admired the architecture of the great buildings, and heard some songs about the river, and caught a few sentences of a scholarly presentation on the nature of river bottoms in ancient times. Then I noticed a few people making their way out of the cathedrals and libraries and joining the happy simpletons in the river.

There was, of course, an essential difference between those who studied rivers and lived in beautiful buildings and those who played in the river – those in the river, regardless of how they got there, or how they got in once they were there, were all soaking wet, whereas those in the buildings remained dry.

©2007 Lawrence Russell Taylor, PhD. All rights reserved worldwide

(I am indebted to Dr. James Finley, author of Christian Meditation, for the outline of and idea behind this story.)