The path climbs to the left, passing through an unusually dense arcade formed by banana trees, avocados, and papayas. Monkeys play cheerfully in the branches on either side. Suddenly, sunlight breaks above us, its rays shimmering playfully through the grey clouds that tend to congregate towards the end of the afternoon. We find ourselves in a small uphill clearing, facing the largest waterfall – around a hundred meters high. Sipi Falls spring from underground springs on Mount Elgon, their flow untouched by the passage of time. The landscape around us is an endless tropical rainforest, trees stretching their branches in every direction and trying to reach the sky, struggling to rise and breathe in the sunlight. How different, really, is this from human striving?
The sound of the water is deafening and unceasing. We stop for a short break. My mind, taking advantage of the stark contrast between the stillness within me and the all-encompassing noise around me, begins to slowly formulate a thought. I’m not sure where it leads, but I follow it with curiosity. I watch the waterfall and smile softly when I realize where my restless mind is headed.
Staring at the waterfall, I can’t help but observe the incessant flow of the water. Jets of water begin at the top, leaving the observer wondering exactly where they originate from. We cannot see or fully understand the source, but we can see their beginning. Countless streams, one after another, in a disorderly succession, appearing as if they emerge magically from nowhere. They merge and continue together. They collide and separate. They vanish in different directions, only to stumble upon each other again along the way. Their shape shifts; their volume changes depending on where they are and how their course is altered. At some point, they reach their end—where the waterfall strikes relentlessly, yet tenderly, the surface of the pool into which it spills. The streams are no longer streams. They scatter in every direction as tiny droplets of water. They sprinkle the surrounding plants with vitality, granting them the chance to continue their own journey in the cycle of life.
The stream then changes form, letting go of its distinctive, fluid shape. One thing is certain, though – it does not disappear. Its energy, its meaning within the cycle of life, its contribution to its surroundings and the impact it has, remains. And, after time, following the circle of life, it will rise again from the waterfall. It will return as a stream at the beginning, walking its path once more.
It seems to me that the waterfall is the perfect analogy for life and human relationships. We all come from somewhere. We don’t know – beyond biology – where we come from or why we exist, from what and for what purpose our consciousness arises, or what our true significance is (if there is one) within the circle of life. The beginning and the end of the waterfall almost symbolize birth and death – the start of life and its end. Both come at different moments for each person. Some streams never meet; one has ended before the other has even had the chance to begin. Some meet at the start, altering one another, just as we are all shaped by our surroundings and social relationships.
Our connection with the people we interact and share moments with leaves an impact; it creates a kind of energy. Beautiful moments, harsh moments, instructive moments; moments full of laughter and hope, of tears and sorrow, of anger and indignation. This kind of energy, born from moments of every kind, leaves small imprints along life’s path, affecting our surroundings on levels imperceptible, obvious, and everything in between. We meet and we create; we ripple through life and, somehow, that imprint gently etches our environment, reminding us how intertwined our connection is, how interwoven our existence. How many artificial divisions have we created among ourselves, within something so unified and so intimately entwined in the thread of life.
The loud roar of the waterfall draws me back to the here and now. I feel a lifting of the spirit at how fully it encapsulates life, and at how the “death” of each stream does not mean the death of its existence. Perhaps death is not the most suitable word for what happens. Yes, a single stream ceases to be part of the waterfall like the others, but its essence continues to influence the environment as its form evolves and transforms into something different. How easily we forget how deeply our interactions and experiences affect us – and not only us, but those around us too. Each experience adds a small piece of delicate glass to the colourful mosaic of our character, shaping who we are, making us distinct from each other. That piece may be as small as a grain of sand or as large as a rare jewel. Still, it is intricately woven into our character and our being – and the same is true for each of us.
A feeling of nostalgia and calmness envelops me. I think of the people I’ve met so far on this journey – how much they have affected me and, I believe, how much I have affected them through our encounters. My thoughts extend to the people who truly impacted me throughout life – my friends, my teachers, my mentors, those who genuinely showed me the way in different situations and moments, whom I still carry within me like a luminous torch, glowing quietly as a steady force inside. I feel nostalgic because I know I haven’t kept in touch with all of them, and that saddens me deeply. It saddens me because I know the breadth and depth of their influence on me, and because I feel that all of this now belongs to another life, as far as the stars in the sky.
I don’t know if I’m the only one, but I believe my memory has changed in recent years. The years get compressed more easily in my mind, and it’s not as effortless to trace back the details of everyday moments. Sometimes events tangle into a thick knot in my head, which I must patiently untangle if I want to reach the detail I’m searching for.
In the end, how much do our memories matter? How many things do we experience each day, and how much truly stays within us? Life flows endlessly, like the streams of the waterfall in front of me, and with it so do our memories—enriching us, shaping our essence, slipping away and teasing us. Holding our memories gently—neither gripping them tightly nor being indifferent towards them—may be a healthy way to live and something that colours me with a sense of inner peace.
I sense movement beside me. My guide has come to ask if I’m ready.
“Let’s go,” I reply, still half-submerged in my thoughts, surrounded by deep reflections and contradictory emotions.
I trust the path I’m on, and step by step I continue on the trail ahead of me.