River watching

River watch season has just ended in New Brunswick. Each year, the freshet (the thawing of the river's ice & snow) heralds the coming of spring and the possibility of flooding. A government website monitors daily levels and predicts potential danger zones based on temperatures and other weather changes. This was my first year living in a house on the river, and I found it fascinating. I watched as the big rock on our beach disappeared, the shoreline inched closer to the road, and the lower wharf sank from view. The river got high, but not dangerously so. No major destruction this year, although a neighbour did lose a sets of stairs. Now the waters are ebbing. The top of the big rock is poking through. In a month, the river will settle back to its its usual volume.

I live on the Wolostoq aka the St. John River in a house that was once my family's summer cottage. I moved back to NB with my husband and three kids in August 2021. The pandemic was a factor in that decision, but even before that, twenty-odd years of moving around the US had left me tired of setting down my roots. I wanted to return to a place where they already existed, where I had a history. I wanted to live in a place that was already meaning-filled.

It's been eight months since that move. People ask if we are glad we did it. The answer is yes, mostly. It has been good and hard. I have close relationships with family again, reconnected with old friends, and I am learning to garden. But Maritime winters are long, the healthcare system is byzantine, paperwork has proven endless, and rural living can be challenging. No more running out to pick up dinner when the fridge is bare and instead of commutes in heavy traffic, we dodge deer on dark, country roads. There has also been an inevitable sense of loss. I miss Target, breakfast burritos, and good data plans. I miss an early spring. But I also mourn the end of a dream. Sometimes I wonder at how I worked so hard to get away only to end up back where I started. 

But the river, my companion, offers steady solace. I love living near it and watching its changing shades, currents, and moods. I watch the ducks and the boats going by. The river has become another member of our family. How is the river today, we ask? And everyone has a comment or an observation. Life by the river may not be exactly exciting, but it’s never dull.

For a long time, I have thought about writing about this move and our new/old life in New Brunswick, which might entail writing about everything from family lore to reading to a new career in counseling. Or what can be learned by watching the river. In the poem “Stars,” Mary Oliver admonishes:

“Listen, listen, I’m forever saying, Listen to the river, to the hawk, to the hoof, to the mockingbird, to the jack-in-the-pulpit.

Maybe if I watch long enough, I will be able to heed her advice. I will learn to listen to the river and hear the wisdom it has to share.