Your terrified self is trying to develop suction cups to hold on to the kayak frame. You want to be like Boston Ivy that attaches fast to the brick of your home. Holding on to the thin frame that is between you and rock and churning water. Thinking the river is tame you relax. Then hearing the pounding of the waves pouring through the narrows you grip and tense and hold your breath.
That’s how it is when the friend is gone to the shores of eternity. You glide in a tranquil pool only to be jerked to reality that the new normal is never normal. The only security you can find is your kayak. That space just out side your thin skin. That thin wall that everyone sees and that you have built to shelter your self. That defense that guards and isolates from the churning that’s craving to pull you under.
No one is replacing you how can they? You seemed to be just as transparent and just as spiritual and just as messed up as me. The places we walked and talked are public venues yet private sanctuaries on inner soul searching. Now there’s a different soul searching that is driving the kayak. A mixed up blending of loss and reality, purpose and destiny, confusing and providence.
There is no real answer just empathy for the other person going through it. There is a new living on the river’s runway. Go