In my memoir, Into the Soul of the World, published six weeks ago by Hachette Books, I write that “I have a thing for rivers.”
There’s more I needed to say about rivers.
"There's the haunting whitewater roar in my skull from the river in Arkansas, where at age 12, I almost drowned. Roaring. Always. There was the house flooding when the creek swelled into a rising river, threatening to swallow us whole. In 1999, as a thirty-three-year-old adventure writer, I peered through the smoke of the burning ghat at the fiery corpse and into my soul, or something like it, on the banks of the Ganges. At age 46, I rebaptized myself in the aqua-colored Jordan River at the exact spot where tradition says Jesus was baptized…. And there are more rivers. Rivers everywhere. The waterfalls I rappelled down and flooded red-rock slot canyons I swam through in southwest Utah…. In college in the 1980s, my friends and I used to walk the metal catwalk under the highway at night and peer down at the swirling currents of the Kaw River in Lawrence, Kansas…. In 2001, I stood on the deck of a houseboat motoring up the Amazon. The air was like a wet blanket, and the river seemed infinitely wide, like it was everywhere…. Rivers have traumatized me, and they have also healed me.
Back then, I wasn't conscious of my affection for rivers or what they might mean to me, what they did to me or might do to me. I moved toward them unwittingly, compulsively, as if I were a wand-wielding dowser, as if river-seeking code had been written into my brain's operating system. I was a diviner, drawn to water. But what did I want to divine?"
During those river-filled years, I didn’t understand Sigmund Freud’s idea of “repetition compulsion.” In his 1914 paper "Remembering, Repeating and Working-Through," the founder of psychoanalysis, noted that the patient doesn't remember anything of what he has forgotten and repressed, he acts it out, without, of course, knowing that he is repeating it.
Later, in "Beyond the Pleasure Principle," Freud expanded on compulsive repetition. He wrote that we have a "destiny neurosis," a built-in character trait that seeks expression and our destiny by neurotically repeating experiences.
Freud's point seems to contradict the old saying that the "definition of insanity is to repeat the same behavior with the hope of a different outcome." Instead, he suggests that it is human to be drawn, over and over and over again, to what we consider our destiny or what will pull, or carry, or even drown us into our future.
I didn’t heal my traumas through all my seeking alongside rivers. But I suppose I did figure a few things out.
Today, I view my return to spiritual life in a similar light to my river walking. I now see that I’ve been circumambulating spirituality and even God throughout my 57 years, even during the two decades when I considered myself “an agnostic bordering on atheist.” I kept being drawn to write about spiritual topics, though from the perspective of a doubting Thomas.
But eventually I found my way through the doubt back to faith.
It wasn’t easy. But one thing that helped me find faith again was learning about the linguistic shift that occurred alongside the scientific advances of the Enlightenment. While the advances in science and logic led to longer, healthier lives, the “advancement” came with a cost. Things that couldn’t be proven through the scientific method, like God or mystical experiences, became difficult or even impossible to talk about. If you said, I believe in God, you ran the risk of appearing to be a nonsensical lunatic. Not even Thomas Aquinas was up to the task of proving God’s existence. God, after all, is defined as a being or force that is beyond our understanding.
In the Eastern tradition, the word “faith” is closer to our word “trust.” Or to “know in one’s body,” “to steep in.” One can know or steep in God, even if one can’t prove his existence in scientific terms.
In learning about this linguistic shift, I gave myself permission to “trust” again.
Re-discovering spirituality is not uncommon for a man my age. The so-called experts say that many people are drawn to religion in midlife because in midlife, one must begin to reckon with one’s own mortality.
While there's probably truth to this explanation, it doesn’t feel adequate, at least not in my case. For me, my return to a spiritual way of moving through the world feels like my river-walking. It’s more like Freud’s repetition compulsion. Returning to a spiritual life feels like it’s my fate or destiny. I knew I needed faith if I was going to heal from the PTSD, addiction, and depression that dogged me for much of my teen years and adult life. Without faith, I wasn’t up to the task.
I grew up deeply spiritual. As a teenager, I was a skinny 6-foot, 125-pound Jesus Freak, a mystic in Converse hightops. But I gave all that up in college. In midlife, the river of spirituality appeared in the form of Eastern traditions: meditation, yoga philosophy, and Buddhism. Through these practices I realized better focus, improved discernment, and a more open heart. And eventually, I began to experience the Divine again. I felt more connected to myself, my world, and the Universe, too. Maybe I could feel the presence of God.
These days, I wake before dawn. I spend an hour or two sitting on a cushion in front of my altar, which is covered with pictures of saints, statuettes of various deities, and tchotchkes from my decade and a half working as an adventure writer. I don’t feel entirely comfortable doing this. I feel timid and awkward in front of my altar, despite being a decade into my spiritual journey. At first, I felt like I was performing, and I hated this this feeling. But eventually the imposter syndrome went away. It is what it is. Eventually, I added yoga poses, various forms of meditation, even chanting. Today, I pray. I ask for grace. I listen, too. For answers. Which sometimes come—but often do not.
But my morning spiritual practices became an essential part of each and every day—an essential part of how I understand myself and my place in the Cosmos.
The older I get, the more I see it. I am constantly, unwittingly, compulsively walking along the banks of rivers again. Rivers everywhere.
A few weeks ago, I listened to a podcast with Eugene Peterson. He talked about his translation of the Bible into contemporary and poetic language. He called his work of art The Message. I ordered it, and the book arrived last week. I’ve added “reading Psalms and The Gospel of Mark” to my other daily spiritual practices. My life is better with Peterson’s new translation of the Bible.
I’ll share more about these new scriptural adventures soon.
Indeed, the river is everywhere.
Order my book from your favorite indie publisher or from Amazon. Here’s the link: https://www.amazon.com/Into-Soul-World-Journey-Healing/dp/0306829304
Beautifully written, a joy to read. As a man of similar age, recovering from the similar issues you described and also 10 years walking a spiritual path, I identified massively with what you wrote. Thanks Brad. I will order the book 🙏
Wow Brad Wetzler, As the daughter of two Freudian psychiatrists (and my Dad was in a national position), girl river runner who fell hard for kayaking and rivers, a nurse, a yoga enthusiast, a journaler, a travel writer wanna be, and whose marriage took me through 4 states, 9 houses, 2 children, (one was very ill at a young age) I sure can relate to you and your adenturous searching soul. The betrayal by my deceptive and calculating husband , disbelief of his character change by my immediate family almost annhilated me and I found that Chist is real, and seeks his lost sheep, truly. I am looking forward to reading "Into the Soul of the World"