What Rivers and Oaks Taught Me About Being Human

I came across this quote by Robert Macfarlane recently:

Our fate flows with that of rivers and always has.

It stopped me in my tracks, the way certain words do when they land exactly where your heart has been quietly wondering.

I started thinking about rivers – how they’re always moving, carving new paths, carrying life from one place to another. But then I thought about what makes a river possible: the steady banks that guide it, the rocks that create those gentle eddies where small fish can rest, the deep pools formed by boulders that refuse to budge.

Nature needs both the flow and the stillness. The river carries seeds and stories downstream, while the oak stays rooted, offering shelter and stability for generations. Neither could exist without the other.

We’re like this too, aren’t we? Some of us are naturally the river people – always planning the next adventure, bringing fresh ideas, pushing boundaries, creating change. Others are the oak people – the ones who create cozy homes everyone wants to return to, who preserve traditions, who offer steady wisdom when the world feels chaotic.

But here’s what I’ve been learning: we’re not locked into being one or the other forever. Life has seasons, and sometimes we need to be the river, sometimes the stone.

I think about my twenties, when I was all movement and possibility – ready to try anything, go anywhere, completely open to whatever came next. Then there were years when I needed to be more rooted, focused on building something solid, creating a foundation. Now I find myself flowing between both states, sometimes within the same week.

In art communities, I watch this happen too. An artist might spend years experimenting wildly, then suddenly feel called to study traditional techniques with deep focus. Or someone who’s been quietly perfecting their craft for decades suddenly starts taking risks that surprise everyone, including themselves.

Even in my own work, I feel both currents flowing. Some days I’m the river, letting color and intuition carry me toward something I’ve never tried before. Other days I’m more like the stone, returning to techniques that feel solid under my hands, creating work that feels rooted in what I know to be true. Sometimes I wonder if what I have to say even matters, but then I remember that both the flowing and the staying have their place in the larger conversation.

The beautiful thing is that both states teach us something essential. When we’re flowing, we learn about possibility and courage. When we’re still, we learn about depth and patience. We need both to become who we’re meant to be.

This reminds me of discovering what truly speaks to your soul – sometimes it’s found in wild exploration, sometimes in quiet contemplation. Both paths can lead us home to ourselves.

Maybe our fate really does flow with the rivers – not because we’re all meant to be in constant motion, but because we’re part of something larger that needs both the moving and the staying, the questioning and the knowing, the adventure and the home. And maybe the real gift is learning when to flow and when to root, when to carry and when to shelter.

I’ve found that creativity connects us to something deeper during both seasons – whether we’re rushing forward with new ideas or settling into the quiet work of refining our craft.

Both are sacred. Both are necessary. Both are beautiful.

What are you in this season – the river or the stone? And what were you five years ago? I’d love to hear about your own migrations between these states.

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What resonates with you about this idea? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.