Let Go, Child

"The river is flowing very fast. Do not hold on to the shore."
– Hopi Elder Prophecy

It always makes me alert. That speech. That summons. Not inspired, not reassured—alert. As if something ancient has touched the back of my neck and whispered, Now. Go.

I am humbled to have been called. Afraid of the river. Hopeful of where it might take us.

“This is the hour,” the Elder says. Not next month, not after the plan is clearer or the money secured or the past fully processed. Now.

The river is rising and fast-moving and full of others trying to paddle in their own direction. Some will cling to the banks. I understand. My heart has wanted to hold on to so many beautiful things.

But the current doesn’t stop. Let go, child. Let go, Ryan.

There is no one coming to save us. We are the ones we have been waiting for. And maybe that is the purest form of humanity: to finally see each other, to take care of ourselves and one another, to stop waiting for someone else to name the direction.

I have spent so much of my life waiting—for permission, for certainty, for the right timing. I have looped in thought, hesitated at the edge, stared into the water asking for a sign. But the river does not wait for my overthinking. It calls to the instinctual body, not the strategic mind. Move.

When I move—truly move—I change. The creative current begins to carry me. Not always gently. Sometimes it drags me like a riptide. Sometimes it cracks me open and makes me weep.

It is less like finding flow and more like stepping into fast-moving traffic—dangerous, electric, alive. And yet, I would rather be broken open by movement than calcified by safety.

The shore I am leaving behind is made of what has worked before but no longer does. Old structures. Old self-concepts. To let go of these is an act of faith with no promise of new land. A trust fall with no net. And still, I go.

Because I believe what Rilke said is true:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

I don’t want to live a cautious life. I want to flare. To make shadows the divine can dance through. To embody the longings I was born with. Even if it hurts. Even if I don't make it all the way to shore.

Taking action, for me, isn’t about force. It’s not about fighting the current or manifesting at all costs.
It’s about working with—with the water, with time, with myself. There is resistance, sure. But there is also alignment. A kind of ease that comes when you stop pretending the river isn’t already moving.

The Elder says, Where is your water? And I think it means: know what nourishes you. Know what sustains you. Take it with you. Because this river isn’t hypothetical. It is change. It is now. And the only way through is through.

I am not alone in this water. There are others, of course. I see them on the edges of my awareness—some flailing, some floating, some paddling with grace. I tend to be a lone wolf who likes to be surrounded.

These days, I mostly focus on not drowning. But when I look up, I see I’m not the only one letting go. Not the only one afraid. Not the only one moving.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life. You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.
—Rilke

I reach for that hand now. Not to be saved, but to be witnessed. To be reminded that the seriousness of life is not heaviness, but devotion. To keep moving, even without a guarantee. To flare up like a flame. And make big shadows the river can move in.