I was in Wyoming, flown in to be the entertainment at a fancy-schmancy guest ranch. Part of the compensation was access to the property’s outdoor activities during downtime. Unfortunately, having not yet been bitten by the fly fishing bug, I missed out on a golden opportunity to explore blue-ribbon trout water. I did, however, do some trap shooting at the range and took a trail ride or two. One of the guided rides took us across the ranch’s namesake creek, easily spotted from a distance thanks to the cottonwood trees standing sentinel along its banks, the only place with enough consistent moisture to support them.
In the Midwest, other than brief dry spells in late summer and early autumn, not only did we have ample “April Showers” most years, we had a good chance of precipitation on and off all year. The surplus of hydration meant lush green nearly everywhere. And a bumper crop of mosquitos, but that’s another story. It also meant a creek or body of water could be tucked away nearly anywhere. By contrast, in the mountains of the American West and adjacent desert regions, the melting winter snow is the best hope the flora and fauna have to survive. That’s why it’s always so easy to spot the areas where waters flow—life flourishes. Larger animals, taller trees, and dense vegetation sprout up mere yards from baron desert or towering rockface. In fact, in the presence of enough water, vegetation will seemingly sprout directly from solid rock.
From The Rio Grande Valley of Big Bend National Park to the high deserts of Colorado, and most recently as we headed across the Great Plains of New Mexico, I’ve noticed this corridor of green all across the more aired parts of the U.S., and I always find it striking. We had been driving across the flat, nearly featureless terrain for a couple of hours, and there was nary a tree for as far as we could see. This landscape had a unique, stark sort of beauty, but it’s nearly impossible not to feel a little exposed in the presence of that vastness. We then descended from the mesa and into the Pecos River Valley just outside of Roswell, and immediately into what seemed to be an entirely different world as the flat earth gave way to a twisting, tree-lined river valley. Suddenly, we found ourselves in a shroud of green.
As I drove on, my mind began to wander, as it frequently does. I started to think about the parallels between the journey of life and the expression of nature. And then my thoughts began to meander to people I have met or know well who seem to elicit the same response. Folks who seem surrounded by others who are stretching and growing. It’s as though the people in their sphere of influence are fertilized by a nourishing concoction of equal parts example and encouragement bathed in light. Their abundance—of love, creativity, energy— flows to those around them without diminishing their own supply in the least.
An ocean is filled one raindrop at a time. Some fall on the surface, and some on a faraway plain that soaks and flows until it reaches its destination, only to evaporate and begin again. Who among us isn’t sometimes thirsty for that sort of interaction—to be “hydrated” with love, encouragement, support, acknowledgment, challenge, inspiration. If you think about it, I wager you have some folks like that in your own life.
Like raindrops, our creativity, our gifts, kindness, compassion, and love were not given so that we may hoard them. They were and are meant to be poured out and to return in one form or another only to be poured out again. And again. The more we share, the more room is left in our own cups to be filled anew. And then there is just to breathe in and enjoy the garden that springs up around us. I don’t always choose wisely, but in a time when much of the landscape feels like a desert, may I ever endeavor…to be the river.