One sees only fire,
the other, a hearth aglow.
Same flame, different eyes.
What we fear or praise
depends on the gaze we cast.
The water holds both.
Two stand apart, facing one another, as if looking into a mirror. They are rooted in their own perception and definition of reality. They cannot touch because a river flows between them—a sharp and impenetrable dividing line.
Red flows through, and one sees the blood, the stain of loss, the wound of history, the echo of sorrow. The other sees the bloom of love, the promise of passion, the unfolding of a sacred life. Flames then flow, shimmering brightly in that river—one watches the world burn, consumed by its hunger, while the other warms their hands by its glow, feeling the security of hearth and home. Water then flows like a silver thread weaving through the divide. One gasps for air, caught in its relentless pull, while the other drinks deep, feeling replenished.
Then, a sacred book floats by with pages fluttering like wings. One reads condemnation, a weight of sin pressing heavily, while the other finds grace and a balm of mercy in its lines. A mountain then rises from this river, ancient and unmoving—one dreams of conquest, measuring its worth in stone and dominion, while the other bows with humility before its wisdom, feeling the call to serve. Then, an owl glides between them and hovers above the waters, her wings cutting the silence. One shudders, seeing the shadow of death, while the other lifts their gaze, hearing the whisper of divine truth.
Neither is wrong. Neither is right. They are shaped simply by the stories they have been given, the lands they have walked, and the burdens they have carried. Truth does not belong to one or the other—it shifts, fluid as the river that runs between them, changing shape in the eyes that behold it.
To forgive is not to erase, nor to surrender. It is to rise above the river and see its course, winding through valleys of pain and peaks of understanding. It is to know that one’s suffering is no more sacred than another’s, that vision is limited to the eyes that see.
And yet, to soften is a gift given to the self, not to the other. Compassion is not a currency to barter for peace in another’s heart—it is a salve for the wounds of the self, a quiet liberation from the weight of resentment. Letting go is not forgetting; it is choosing to walk lighter and to breathe easier.
The river’s separation is but an illusion, a mere trick of perception. The waters that seem to divide are the same that connect, flowing from the same source and returning to it. The “one” and the “other” are reflections of the same essence, seen through different lenses. As they stand on opposite banks, they are not truly apart; they are bound by the same currents of life, the same tides of experience. The river is not a barrier but a bridge, a reminder that beneath the surface, all is one. In recognizing this unity, they find that the distance between them dissolves, and they are, and always have been, the same.
This is my journey,
— Nate Long “Owl”