This is the threshold. A place where the past bows and the future whispers. The river glimmers beneath the soft haze of morning light. I sit quietly at the port, the wooden boards warm beneath me, my feet brushing against the pulse of the earth. There is a stillness here, but not silence.

The current speaks in a language older than words, a murmur of movement, of memory, of invitation. I feel the anticipation rising in me like the river after rain. Before me stretches the unknown, wild and wide. The journey is unfolding, within and around me. There is a thrill in this moment before the beginning. It crackles in the air, soft as breath and sharp as lightning.

There is something sacred in this in-between moment. Before “the paddle”dips, before the trees close in, before the unknown becomes known. The air hums with anticipation. I can feel it in my chest, this quiet electricity. The thrill of not knowing. The beauty of not needing to.

I’m not just preparing to travel through the river. I’m preparing to be changed by it. To listen. To receive. But also to give my attention, my intention, my heart.

I feel ready. Or rather, I feel willing. Willing to be shaped, surprised, changed. I want to learn.

The journey calls and I answer.

This journey begins before the first ripple. And already, I am moving.

The Port

Vanessa Isaac