How Do You Thank a River for her gift?

Not just the water. Not just the view.

But something deeper. Something vital.

Something you can’t quite name.

Like a feeling that arrives before thought.

A nourishment that goes beyond the senses.

A forgotten connection waiting to be re-ignited.

I’ve been painting the river for nine months now. And I’m starting to suspect she gives more than we know how to receive.

More than light and colour and birdsong. More than inspiration or peace.

She gives presence.

She gives belonging.

She gives without asking.

And I wonder—do we even realise what we’re being given?

Last week, I was sitting on the Manuherikia riverbank. The sun was warm on my face.

Birdsongs were rising again after a long silence—mallards with their green collars, Paradise Shelducks wheeling in pairs,

and a Californian quail tiptoeing through the bush behind me, asking for "permission to land" before calling its flock across the water.

When they finally saw me, they quacked in surprise. I laughed softly.

It was the kind of moment you don’t photograph. You just live it, using brush and paint to take it all in.

Tender greens had returned, catching the light on every leaf. The river moved slowly, like she was stretching after a long sleep.

I sat still, feeding on the heat, listening to the flowing song of the water.

Present but not totally material. Just an eye, a moving hand, and a palette of colours.

I breathed in. I breathed out.

And I felt included.

I am—but only because I belong.

My breath began to match hers. My flow tuned to the river’s flow. My heart quietly adjusted to her song.

That’s when the wave of joy caught me.

I was welcome here.

If I stayed still and listened carefully, I felt part of the River's world. I felt whole, and much more.

The light, the sounds, the colours, the smell of the river—it’s food. Food for the soul. I am nourished.

A thought kept circling back, though.

The River gives me so much.

Am I grateful enough? Or do I take it for granted? Do I give back to the river?

Not much, really.

How do you thank a river for this "Joie de Vivre" (joy of being)?

It reminded me of "The Giving Tree" (a bittersweet story by Shel Silverstein)—how the tree gives everything,

and we take without thanks. We ask for more, pretending the tree is infinite. Pretending the river is infinite.

But she’s not. She knows that.

And still, she gives without restraint.

Because her purpose is to nourish. To feed our bellies and our hearts.

What’s wild is our blindness—our failure to see that we are part of her landscape.

And when there is no more river, there is no more us.

This reflection came after nine months of painting the river. Not from photos. Not from memory.

But from being there, outside, on the spot, listening and receiving.

Since February, I’ve made 22 river paintings—more fieldnotes than finished works.

Each one a moment of presence. Like a conversation with the river.

Some are messy. Some are quiet. Some are silent. All of them are honest.

This is the first step of my new project "I Am River", a 52-week plein-air challenge.

One painting a week.

One moment of belonging.

One offering back.

I’ll share more soon. But for now, I invite you to sit with this question:

How do you thank a river for what you can’t quite name?

Not with words. Not with theory. But with attention, presence...

..with a relationship.