This blog category is the journaling and journey-ing of my quest to say (with cautious sincerity) “Hello, Anxiety” and to take a look at Generalized Anxiety Disorder from my “me-andering” views.
So recently Robert and I took a fascinating three-week course at The Learning Center here in Savannah. (Okay, TIB -Truth in Blogging – The Learning Center is part of Senior Citizens Inc. I know, I know you don’t think I could possibly be old enough for SCI.)
Here’s the course info:
So the course theme was to examine the concept of “wildness,” especially the wild of nature.
Our homework, after the first session, was to go into a place of “wildness,” in whatever way we described wildness.
Here’s my homework…
RIVER VOICE
So I had a bit of a challenge locating the geography of my wildness/wilderness homework. I considered the thick, life-sustaining mud of the area marshes, but where would I sit to meditate? The trails at Skidaway Island State Park? Maybe, but the last time I biked the trail, with wobbly bike, I narrowly avoided running over an eight foot deadly snake. Robert, riding a few feet behind me, said the snake was two feet max and probably harmless. Maybe my own Washington Square, the northeast most of Savannah’s twenty-two remaining squares, with its proximity to Trustee’s Garden, the oldest neighborhood in our city? With many a tale to tell.
But no, I finally decided to be much more mundane, humdrum and prosaic. I chose the Savannah River, specifically the stretch near the rapidly developing Eastern Wharf uber development, a few blocks from where we live.
Back during the heyday of the pandemic, Robert and I would walk leisurely along the river, most often with nary a soul in sight. But then, Robert would pause, grab my arm and loudly whisper, “Neal, look, river otters!” The unexpected wildness of their appearance in Savannah’s Historic District brought wonder and joy to us both. As in Jurassic Park, “Life finds a way.”
Sadly, the Savannah River has health issues, with the Savannah RiverKeeper Organization explaining, “With hundreds of sources of environmental pollution, the Savannah River is impaired by heavy metals, sediment, and low levels of dissolved oxygen. Industrial expansion and land development increase the risk of continued pollution.” And the watchdog Institute for Energy and Environmental Research mourns that “The waste disposal practices of the nuclear Savannah River Site in South Carolina have led to severe contamination of portions of the surface and groundwater of the Savannah River site itself. This contamination continually threatens the Savannah River.”
Monday morning, before the forecasted 90° heat, I walk with notebook in hand, past the Pirate’s House, down to the river, glancing at the Waving Girl, still trying to welcome her man. I experience a bit of irritation at the developers, continuing to build, build, build the $600,000 and up residences at the Eastern Wharf along the river.
I find a bit of a low brick wall and sit, remembering Robin’s instruction to “become a temporary resident of the wild, to engage my senses – to listen, look, smile, feel.”
And I also remember a definition of the phrase “wild and free” that I had recently discovered: “Trusting your instinct and living inside the moment with full consciousness and an open heart. This happens when you’re fully immersed in the present.”
I look up. Cloudy. A light breeze, cool for the moment.
The morning tug boats cause small waves to lap against the river’s edge. I am beginning to feel the river with my body.
I see birds, I hear birds, I wish I could name them. So many birds, flying over the river, in the trees at my back, in the distance, with a plethora of voices singing in an uneven choir. One bird, a tern maybe, departs from his fellows, and seemingly dives directly into the river, looking for a fish. He doesn’t catch one this time, so he shakes his body a bit and flies back into the heavens.
These birds appear unhindered by man’s intrusion on the river: the tugboats, the huge cargo ships, the pleasure boats, the people.
After a while, trying to decide if I had wilderness-ed enough, I summon the courage to look directly into the river’s eyes and ask her a wild question: if she ever feels poisoned. It takes a while to hear her answer above the din of human progress around me, but finally, inside the moment, trying to have an open heart, I hear the river named Savannah speak:
“You are looking at me. I am here. And I will be long after you’re no longer able to look. And yes, for far too long you have dumped into me that which I never asked for. But I am still alive. Ask the birds. Listen to the fish. Remember the otters and the dolphins. Watch my movement, my sway, my dance toward the Atlantic. I am alive. Are you?”
After Savannah finishes speaking, for some reason I continue to sit on my perch, though it is growing a bit uncomfortable and warm on my behind, watching and listening to the birds (which are never gone for long) and a bit mesmerized by the now-hot sun pirouetting playfully on the tiny waves breathing on Savannah’s upper, visible torso.
And I sense that she has something else to say. So I continue to wait. People walk by, talking to each other. I wonder if they ever talk to the river.
“Some do,” Savannah answers, “but most don’t. And that sad truth, along with the poisoning of not only me but my water brothers and water sisters throughout Mother Earth, can get me down.”
“And that is why you and I share something in common, Neal. I too have been diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder. I can talk all about my eternal aliveness, which I truly believe, but I too get anxious, worried about what is happening in our world today. And also like you, I sometimes have trouble breathing deeply and fully, which unfortunately then affects all the life inside me.”
“So the next time you get anxious, the next time you think you are bloated and cannot breathe, remember this: You are not alone. And remember this: We need each other.”
The little waves grew quieter, and so did Savannah. I walked slowly but with a cadence of calm back home. Breathing.
NealEnJoy 