Into the Wild - alone

I have always found water to be fresh and magical; ironically, much of water’s sorcery is derived from its archaic and common life.  I attempted to express the magnificent ubiquitous quality of water in dance choreography during my sophomore year; my piece focused on the ability of the substance to take on a variety of forms as well as reflect these forms throughout the world.  I spent an early spring morning last year mesmerized by sea foam clawing at sands; I then spent a Tuesday night watching waves lull beside a northside beach.  These two moments allowed me to see the same body approach me with aggression and with tenderness; however, water’s thrashing crests, peaceful stretches, and repetitive crashes are not esoteric expressions for me or for specific beaches. Water demonstrates the same qualities in all parts of the earth.

Human relationships are likewise mirrored everywhere.  Although each relationship contains its beautiful nuances, it is innately human to experience conflict, love, support, and curiosity with another.  As water’s movement can be equally appreciated in all areas, the reoccurrence of relationships makes them no less special, only effervescent in their reflections.

During my sophomore year, as I was interested in the reflective quality of water, I took greater notice to the periods of silence in water: when the sun so brilliantly refracts and a face can be seen, of a child peering over a dock.  I was inspired by the momentary pause that I observed in the vast expanse of seas and I began to emulate an ocean’s ability to find peace. In myself, this peace was often most apparent while surrounded by noise.  Resting once on a yoga mat in a family friend’s kitchen, the constant, overpowering ringing of a gong allowed me to find a thin string of strength.  In Into the Wild, the water was at one point Chris’ gong.  Chris described immersion in the ocean, his fear, as a tool to make him strong. However, Chris jumped in the waves knowing the direction of the shore; I endured the sound of the gong knowing that the ringing was momentary.  Likewise, an ocean finds incredible stillness following a temporary storm.  There are periods of strength in the large, all-encompassing bodies of water, as well as periods of reflection. I attempted to model this oceanic behavior in my own life.  Last spring, I called for strength only to carry me through the simultaneous culminations of my dance shows, track season, and AP classes; I enjoyed every moment, but counted down the weeks until a period of greater calm.  Figuratively, I swam in a roaring ocean because I knew that there was a silent pool approaching.

The ideals of Siddhartha and Into the Wild have led me to recognize that my personal beliefs align with the qualities of a river more than an ocean. I have become too reliant on the pause of the ocean; my silence is not only reflection, but also momentary collapse.  I feel empowered by perpetual motion, the idea of finding strength in the thrashing waves; however, the river presents a similar magnitude of power, as was demonstrated in Chris’ near-death experience as melting snow cascaded downstream, without a need to collapse to calmness. 

The difference between the movement of the ocean and river is the latter’s more consistent coasting.  When I run longer distances or choose to walk for hours, my body eschews fatigue and, instead, coasts.  While coasting, my mind is able to more wholly notice my own ideas and my surroundings. As limitations dissipate, there arises a sense of freedom. I used to consider “coasting through life” to be equivalent with not fully appreciating or exploring existence.  I could not have been more incorrect.  I see when I run.  I count when I run.  I compete when I run. It is only when I coast that I find what Nathan referred to as “a runner’s high” and that I more completely connect with the present. The river is constantly coasting; it carries stillness perpetually; it carries life and strength and challenge perpetually.  As identified in my choreography last year, there is a level of sameness in the river, as well as a thousand voices which together sound “Om” to Siddhartha.  Yet, unlike the ocean, the river is able to reflect as it coasts.  Such is the ultimate from my perspective: stillness not in a pause to appreciate the present, but in traveling ripples that are grounded without thought in the now.

I have decided to strive to be like the river.

Why, then, does the river flow into the ocean?