"No man ever steps in the same river twice,
for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man."
—Heraclitus
The River I Step In Is Not the River I Stand In
The river moves—
pulling time and matter through its currents,
holding nothing,
yet shaping everything.
I step in, and it welcomes me,
but the water that touches my skin
is already gone,
already surrendered to the journey.
So it is with all things.
The breath I take is not the breath I release.
The self I was is not the self I am.
I am held in the flow—
being, becoming,
formed by hands I do not see.
There is a grace I cannot name.
God moves in the waters,
hovering over chaos,
an insider, incarnate—
in time and matter,
calling forth life,
calling forth me.
Not fixed, not finished,
but shaped by love,
by loss,
by the weight of days
that press against my soul
like river against stone.
To live is to be shaped.
To be is to pass through.
This moment—this now—
is holy,
a gift,
a sacred space,
because it will not stay.
And yet the river remains,
and yet God remains,
and yet love remains,
and yet, somehow, I remain—
being, in the process of becoming.
—Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025

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