They say you lose track of time, and so
I cannot tell you how long I have 
dipped my hands in this river that promises
a shimmering of gold. I dip my hands 
and filter the moving current finding only 
rocks, small fish, and detritus. We know 
there is not an ounce of gold to be found.
So why do I persist? Why do I stand
knee-deep in the cascading river searching?
You know we get stuck in routines, the wind 
and sky changing while we do not. I first 
entered the river to help someone I believed 
was drowning. Some might see this
as admirable, but it is not. My grandmother
once said intent is almost more important
than action, that good can stem from
bad intent. And so, trust me when I say
this desire was not admirable. I thought 
he was drowning, but he was just swimming,
his cries those of simple happiness.
Always trying to save someone: you see?
I was still a child when I first understood
helplessness, the powerful need for someone 
to save me. There was no river. There was no gold. 
I stood under the water in the shower and felt 
my heart inside my chest beating and beating 
its distress signal. No one came to save me. 
It was a terrible lesson. Up over the ridge 
is a smaller bluff that looks out over a sea 
of pine and cypress. The view is one many 
call beautiful, the world still capable of surprising 
even the coldest heart. I choose the easy hike up. 
I go easy on myself. I stand and stare out at 
that distance. There, one sees on and on
toward the horizon and the ocean we know 
is there waiting. I go back to the river often. 
No man to save. No gold to find. Once, as a 
young man, I learned the power of hunger, 
the strength of desperation. I had no choice 
but to do what I did. One does not understand 
the need to survive until placed in such situations. 
I gave up. I gave in. And once again, I prayed 
someone would save me. I lay awake at night praying. 
I prayed so hard my head hurt, my hands hurt. 
Surely someone with good intentions would come 
to my rescue. But, no, I rose. I picked the sad 
and destroyed version of myself up 
and carried him away. I had no other choice.
Sometimes one needs an angel, and sometimes one
needs to be the angel. Go easy on me, my love. 
Go easy on me. Yesterday, the City shimmered 
in the spring light diffused by the salted air
over the bay. It was a different kind of beauty,
one made by man but augmented by nature.
There is no gold in the river that I have been 
washing my hands in forever. Do you understand 
now? Someone has to be the angel. Someone has to 
leave the banks and enter the river. Some of us 
were never meant to be saved but are asked, 
instead, to be the saviors. I save, and I save, 
and I save. Again and again, I enter the river, my love.
None of this has ever been about gold.