I climb another mountain, picking my way among the rocks. With careful steps, following the mountain path, until it slopes down again and I find myself at the edge of a mighty river. Spring floods and thawing snow have made it swell, and I see deep beneath the water the stepping stones that could be crossed in normal times.
But what grips my eyes is the unceasing flood of primal water sweeping past. It cuts a path of mighty blue against the grey. Unmistakable, unstoppable, unending, mighty and growing stronger the water cannot be stopped. It will wash this landscape clean, and forever leave its mark: so much stronger than human hands. Every imprint of our passing here will be washed away. I am shocked by the majesty of that realization. I am shocked by the horror and destruction that awaits all who live downstream. I know even I am not safe. The water will come for me.
At the center of the river once stood a house, and around the house a town. A man is there still, clutching to the last post stuck in a failing foundation. His eyes are stubborn and clouded: he will not relent to the reality of the water. The river, rushing by is nothing to him. His house still stands in his mind. The river will pass and he will live on. So he says as he clutches with one hand. In his other he holds a sack, no doubt of his possessions, a bunched up hat, a bright red. The normal life he will not let go, even though it weighs him down. In this way he does not acknowledge the river and its crushing onslaught, even as his last standing post weakens. He will be swept away and crushed, tossed on the water as flotsam, and summarily destroyed by impact upon impact with the crushing rocks. Yet he will deny his fate to his dying breath.
That was the first image of foolishness that I found.
I climb up along the bank of the river, a wandering only possible for my feet, and find the place where the river was before it became a torrent. I cross over and down to where I found the man, but on the other side. He is gone, but now I find among the rocks a hermit clad in blue robes. He sits in meditation, surrounded by scattered papers and books. He sees me. “quickly, you must help, strange one! The village has been washed away and it is to me to rebuild it, here by this mighty river. I will make it floodproof. I will build a dam.” he says. “Please another survivor sits across that ridge, but she will not speak to me. She will not help me. Please, entreat with her for me so she will aid me in solving our plight.”
I wait a moment, seeing the hope in his eyes. They are slightly clear than the eyes of the other man I saw. He is a believer in his project, though not a knower of many other things. “where is this ridge?”
“over yonder, do you see?” he gestures with his hand.
“I do”
I walk on over the ridge, and step down onto a small plateau. A woman is there, dressed in white among felled trees. She is carving them deftly, fashioning for herself a boat.
I told her of the man I had met, and the one I had seen in the water. She nods.
“Woe to those who stand in the way of change. Those fools who deny it and stubbornly seek out their old lives. I tell you, the water will come for them as it will come for all of us, but they will be the least prepared. Deniers and reactionaries. They will even seek to lure you beneath their roofs and into their villages so you might perish with them. They will say their sturdy walls are strong enough. Do not listen, for normal measures can never stop the never-ending tide of change. A new method is needed, as you can see here. Any other venture is a folly of momentum: a stubborn insistence to keep on going on and on in one direction. Such ones are doomed. But do not let them lure you with their promises that change is not needed. Else you too will be swept away and your head dashed upon the rocks”
“will this boat not too be dashed on the rocks and flung into the depths?”
“I do not build for a flood, but for when the whole world is drenched in water. I do not care if the village is washed away. I care that when there can be no more villages, that there is somewhere to go. For the water cannot be stopped, I can only do my best to be ready when it comes, and for when it will never leave and the whole world will be forever changed.”
I see in her eyes the clarity the other two lacked. Yet I am saddened, because I know she does not share the happy delusion of the other two. Her truth is suffering and worry. No matter how accurate her fear, she is doomed to life without rest. And in the end, what will her efforts yield?
