The River by Lexie Wolf

Photo by Suzanne Masse

I remember studying the floodplain maps when we built our house on the Haw River twelve years ago. The language of rivers was new to me then. What exactly is a 100-year flood zone? We built well above it, on a high rise. Honestly, the choice was as much financial as anything—closer to the river would have meant a longer, more expensive driveway.

Sunday night was the first time I’ve ever felt fear of the river. Not deeply afraid, just a twinge. Rationally, I knew we weren’t in any danger. But the horrific scenes coming out of Texas were fresh. Are fresh. I hadn’t understood how a flood could take people so completely by surprise—how you could go from ordinary to catastrophic in an instant. Now I think I understand a little better.

On Saturday afternoon, Bill and I took the kayaks out. What a privilege, to paddle through your own backyard. I’ve been recovering from knee surgery and feeling mostly sedentary lately—but no knees required in a kayak. We looked at trees, at birds, at stillness. Vaguely aware that there was stormy weather coming tomorrow.

Saturday night, we gathered for Songs of Devotion. The theme, uncannily, was water. We sang beautiful, uplifting songs from Brazil, Japan, the U.S.—in praise of water’s life-giving gifts. Water heal my body. Water heal my soul. In 75 minutes, we created a whole world together—hearts swelling and breaking at once. In the background, there was Texas. Sheila acknowledged the disaster as we began, noting that this theme had long been planned. It lived there quietly alongside the music. Even in celebration, there was grief.

Everything has its shadow. She creates. She destroys.

We create. We destroy.

Now it’s Tuesday. I’m back on the screen porch, listening to the river as it recedes. I can hear the hum of traffic on the bridge over 15-501—everyone speeding along to do their thing. Most of us are back to “normal” after the storm.

But the hot days are hotter. The wet days, wetter. The storms grow stranger and more intense. We humans have banished many dangers during our short reign on this planet. And we’ve created new ones.

And still—there’s beauty. We sing, we paddle, we plant gardens. We take care of what we love. We try to stay awake, even when it’s hard.

The river will rise and fall again. We’ll keep listening.

This morning, I sit on the porch with my coffee. The air is thick, the ground still damp. Somewhere down the hill, the river moves—calmer now, but never still.