The Nantahala River barrels and leaps through the Smokies splashing foam, dousing vacationers in rafts, and flipping canoes and unwary kayakers. Thrilling, exhilarating, a little scary, it is a swift ride. Even otherwise composed adults squeal the laughter of toddlers tossed in the air. Builders and architects speak of footings and foundations. Gardeners and farmers think of seeds, soil and the seasons to parallel their life events. I come back to rivers for my analogies.        The summer I decided to learn to kayak, I rented a cabin in western North Carolina. The staff at The Nantahala Outdoor Center was like a big family of buddies and best friends. We worked hard, laughed often, paddled a bunch and spent the quiet times trying to figure out our lives. One afternoon we took a busload of visitors upriver to the put-in spot where their whitewater raft trip would begin. A brunette with very stretch pants and perfect nails asked,        "Can I leave my purse here?"   The river guide hesitated then said:        "Why would you want to do that?"   She answered "I don't want it to get wet. I can pick it up when we get back?"   Get back!! Get back? She actually thought the river flowed in a circle, just like a theme park! She'd do the loop, get out of the raft a little soggy, retrieve her purse, and continue with her day.

     I've used the same flawed logic:  last winter I thought I would take trip to India, come back, and get on with my life just like before. I would see exotic, magical places as if they were National Geographic photos. I would be polite and observant and with any luck I 'd connect with a few individuals, human to human, and come home and tell my truelove and friends all about it. 

     It's always what we don't expect that changes us, even though we know change is inevitable. I did not expect India to open her arms and swallow me whole with a soft smile. I did not expect to be imprinted like a new duckling, to daily follow my memories to a place all the way on the other side of the world. Not only the memories of glistening saris on clotheslines, but also the smells of cooking spices, the sound of peacocks perched on thatched roofs and the feel of thick tropical air just before a rain - - - all of this returns. The strongly encapsulated American sense of self that I carried to South India, came back to America changed. That is not what I expected.  

      Seven months later, I am now sitting alone on a bench by another wide swift river, the Saskatchewan River in Canada. I'm on holiday and everyone in Saskatoon is out for a walk. With a writing tablet and book for inspiration, this is my time to wrestle "First Plunge into India - Part 3" into perspective. It's hard to wrap up an experience that is still unfolding.

     As I read page 89 of William Zinsser's On Writing Well, I lose it.  

     "...It is natural for all of us when we have gone to a certain place to feel that somehow we are the first people who ever went there or thought such sensitive thoughts about it....."   

     Laughing and nodding my head I shout: "Of course, it's the warrior myth! That's me. I was the first one ever to go there, experience the unspeakable magic, and return changed to share it with my people!"  

     Why continue the folly of writing? 
     I am still writing because I am driven to express my experience, because my experience didn't stop when I left India. Part of me remains 11.5 time zones away. I know this because 8 bars of music on NPR, a certain turquoise color, or a sweet smell will grab my complete physical and emotional attention. I will feel like I am still there.  

     In my little office in the Ozarks, a slight breeze puts me ankle deep in the warm surf of the Malabar coast. Soft clean sand, crows, palm trees, and merchant stalls draped with bright fabrics. Half way through a business letter I hear Amma's voice and remember how she invited me into the kitchen to taste a special sweet. It's as if she were still looking directly into my eyes, hers sparkling and lined with thick black pencil.  

     The news of nuclear tests in India and Pakistan puts me back in a white taxi while a running snake of men 4-6 across and stretching as far as I could see in both directions passes. The air is full of green and white flags, distorted loudspeaker speeches, and the edgy bristle of human anger and frustration.  

   When I cradle my breakfast bowl watching a hummingbird, I see the bright faces of Kerala children and their amusement, polite and restrained, as I try to eat with the fingers of my right hand. In line at a grocery store in Texas, a toddler claps her hands together, pauses and looks up at me. Like a snapshot I recall the greeting, palms together – Namaste. 

     My American day begins as my Indian day ends. Ceiling fans turn slowly on verandahs, winding down the evening as I wash sleep off my face. As the sky here turns pink and golden in sunset, I see women at the same instant at their river in South India watching the same sky, as a pink and golden sunrise.  

     People say, "India. You wouldn't go back there would you?" My honest answer "A part of me is still there." I'm curled up on a porch reading or gazing out at hibiscus and I am also here. It's as if I am comfortably and naturally in two places simultaneously.  

     Impossible? Perhaps as impossible as still hearing my Grandmother's breathy whistle, tuneless and close to my ear. She passed on decades ago, but don't tell me I cannot still hear her. Being two places at once defies the laws of time and space, but my experience of time and space in the last 54 years has varied radically. Which is the real time, that of my childhood summers or this blink of seasons? And across thousands of miles, I am attached always to those I love.  

     What I have learned since my return is that my experience is not unique. Others have similar feelings. They too did not ride the raft and get off the river exactly where they started. Pushing off into the current in India has carried me farther than I dreamed. 

     "The river's sweet, she sings to you, she dances as she flows, she'll ride you high, roll you in her arms, and sometimes can't let go."