Pushing the River (part 3)

     Last week we were alone in a canoe and clinging to the trunk of a fallen tree while the flooding Okmulgee River threatened to  capsize our boat and drag us under the churning black water.

                The canoe was parallel to the trunk of a fallen tree, pinned there by the force of a river out of its banks. I was in a prone position, sprawled across the top of my gear with a bear hug around the tree trunk, trying to steady the boat with my legs and getting tired quickly. Terror had gripped the tree when the canoe slammed into it broadside. Fear replaced terror as fatigue weakened my arms and legs. If I let go of the tree I would lose my leverage and the boat would flip over and quickly fill with water. If I let go of the boat, I would be stranded miles from civilization, clinging to the trunk of a tree in a flooding river churning with frigid water.

                With no apparent options, I had a moment to consider my situation as my arms and legs began to tremble with cold, fatigue and fear, and it made me angry. Anger is directly connected to our survival mechanism. The fight or flight reaction produces adrenaline, an emergency fuel that the body can use to ensure its survival. The problem with modern civilization is that the stress, the frustration and the fear of our daily lives produce this fuel, often on a daily basis, but it does not burn cleanly – and this is deadly. Fear and anger, with no outlet, kills us quickly in the consequences of a rash decision or it kills us slowly with heart disease, cancer or other “stress related” disease.

                Clinging to my tree trunk I discovered that my anger had given me a burst of energy, but I knew that this would not last long. I thought for a moment about the angry group of young men somewhere upstream and all the talk we directed at them as counselors about how to deal with their anger – and about how difficult it is in practice to think clearly when you are angry or afraid.

                Every athlete, every performer and every martial artist knows that the key to controlling emotion lies in breathing. Deep breathing exercises were something we regularly practiced with our groups of adjudicated youth, and finally, almost too late for my desperate situation, I remembered to breathe.

                The trunk of my tree was even with the top of the canoe, but the tree was not quite parallel with the water and the upper branches hanging further out over the main channel would provide more space and less resistance – if I could position myself and my boat there. Loosening my grip on the tree I rolled over onto my back, hooking my feet under the stern thwart, and proceeded to “climb” the tree, dragging the boat toward the upper branches. As the bow of the boat reached the upper branches the force of the water turned the canoe 90 degrees and parallel with the flow of the river once again.

                As the branches of the tree began to break I knew I had seconds to plan my next move and then seconds to execute it. The main course of the river took a sharp turn to the right, but the current was pushing out of the submerged banks and into the forest, now a moving lake full of hidden hazards. When the boat left the relative safety of my unintended mooring, I would have to swivel from my back, lying on top of my gear facing the stern of the boat, around and into my seat facing the bow. I had to do this without capsizing the boat, get a paddle in my hands and then paddle with all my remaining strength to reach the main channel.

                I made it to the main channel just as exhaustion robbed me of my remaining strength.  Fortunately the course of the river straightened out over the remaining miles into Hawkinsville, Georgia, and I was able to rest and steer the boat while the river did most of the work. Years later now, the memory of my encounter with the river still produces some of the adrenaline that saved my life on a cloudy day in February.

                Today the picture of a slain teenager wearing a hood that is currently fanning the flames of media frenzy could have been any one of the kids who graduated our wilderness course and returned home that year, or any one of hundreds that followed.  The anger which propelled those kids in and out of detention centers is still with us today;  thousands of kids whose hope for the future is constantly suppressed by the knowledge that they will continue to be judged, based solely on appearance. Anger stalks the thousands of families in their fortified neighborhoods, fearful of “the other;” fearful of the culture of violence perpetuated and glorified by “artists,” rappers, musicians and celebrities who profit from the agony of misguided youth.  I am personally angry with the Sharptons , the Jacksons, the parasites of their own communities whose careers depend on a continuation of hostility between the races. I am angry with the talking heads who sell us soap by attempting to try a court case in the media, and I am angry with those of us who listen, who judge, who attach our own fears to a lot of interpretation with very little fact as we slow down to gawk at the scene of the accident.

                Anger is not wrong.  It is part of being human. What is right or wrong is what we choose to do with our anger. It remains to be seen what our culture will do with the anger that threatens to further polarize our people. What will you do with yours?