The Salt of the Current

The smell of wet wood is a specific kind of memory—it is the scent of something that has spent its entire life drinking the river. When I press my palm against the rough, splintered grain of a boat hull, I feel the vibration of the water beneath it, a low, rhythmic thrumming that travels up through my wrist and settles into my chest. It is the feeling of being held by something much larger and older than myself. There is a grit to it, a fine layer of silt and dried salt that clings to the skin, reminding me that we are only ever temporary guests on the surface of the deep. We move through the world with such frantic urgency, yet the river asks only for the patience of the tide. It asks us to let go of the shore and trust the pull of the current. Does the water remember the weight of every hand that has ever touched its surface?

Ryszard Wierzbicki has captured this quiet, rhythmic existence in his beautiful image titled On the River. It carries the same heavy, humid stillness I feel when I stand at the water’s edge. Can you feel the slow, steady pulse of the river in this moment?