Two Rivers: On Abundance, Overflow, and Building the Right Channels

It started not long after I arrived at a beautiful weekend cottage near Aberfeldy. Scotland has had rain every day this year – a record muddily created. But yesterday, when the rain finally stopped, something lifted. The darkness that comes with relentless Scottish winter suddenly broke open.

The river I usually walk beside at home runs absolutely brim full, struggling to contain all it has to bear. We’re parallel in life as well as geography on my morning walks; the volume of the load passing through, gouging out new capacity without consent or consciousness. I’ve written poems before about seeing myself reflected in it. About wanting to be more like the river: steady, persistent, taking up the space it needs while dealing beautifully with the aftermath of storms.

But here at the cottage, the rivers are different.

One wee burn runs vibrant and chattering over rocks, seemingly unaware of the white tumbled clear water it carries. It is unstoppable joy that couldn’t be halted by any external means as it rushes down hills and gullies and hurls itself into the Tay. The stretch we walked beside sits just downstream from rapids favoured by kayakers who don’t realise they’re playing on a version of me, my boundaries overspilling, my tumult unable to stay hidden, spilling into nearby fields that absorb, uncomplaining.

I sat down this morning intending to write about the sunrise. I ended up writing about where water goes when it’s been raining relentlessly for ages.

The Metaphor That Wouldn’t Let Go

For years, I’ve been working with this river metaphor. Trying to understand my own capacity, my own overflow. Trying to figure out how to be “more like the river” – to take up space without apology, to handle what comes with grace.

But something shifted in this morning’s writing. A realisation that reorganises everything:

I’m not one river. I’m two.

There’s the caregiving river: the one that runs brim full with teenagers and ageing parents, navigating all the demands and complexities that come with that terrain. This river has variable water levels. Sometimes it’s flood season. Sometimes drought. Sometimes it’s gouging out new capacity whether I consent or not. This is appropriate. This is the right amount of water for this particular landscape. This river needs all my capacity sometimes, and that’s exactly as it should be.

But there’s also the creative river: the burn full of ideas and insight and energy that wants to chatter over rocks and hurl itself forward with unstoppable joy. This river also needs to run. It needs its own channel, its own landscape, its own trajectory.

The problem isn’t that I’m “too much.” The problem is that I’ve been trying to run two rivers through the same channel.

When Rivers Back Up

When the caregiving river is at flood stage – which is often, because that’s the nature of caring for people you love- the creative river has nowhere to go. It backs up. It spills inappropriately into spaces that don’t want it. It tries to force itself through channels (work situations, conversations, relationships) that aren’t designed for that particular flow.

I’ve spent years thinking I needed to contain myself. To apologise for my overflow. To somehow be less so that I wouldn’t burden the fields around me.

But here’s what I’m finally understanding:

The fields don’t just tolerate the overflow. Some of them are positioned specifically to receive it. Some of them drink it. Some of them need it.

The kayakers aren’t drowning in my tumult – they’re playing on it. They chose to be there.

The question isn’t “how do I overflow less?” The question is “how do I build the right channels for each river?”

Irrigation vs. Drainage

There’s a crucial distinction I’m learning to make:

Drainage is when you’re spilling because you have no container, no proper channel, no choice. It’s overflow that backs up and floods inappropriately because the infrastructure doesn’t exist.

Irrigation is when you’re flowing into fields that want the water. When people or projects or work actively draws from your abundance because they need what you carry.

The creative river isn’t excess to be managed. It’s nourishment looking for the right soil.

The Joyful Burn Doesn’t Apologize

That wee burn at the cottage – it doesn’t check whether it’s okay to be joyful. It doesn’t moderate its chattering. It doesn’t ask permission to rush and hurl itself forward. It just is those things, unaware and unselfconscious in its movement.

What would it mean to carry my creative abundance with that same lack of apology? Not “I’m overflowing and making a mess” but “I’m full and here’s what flows from that”?

Not trying to force the creative river into the caregiving channel. Not trying to make the caregiving river do creative work. Just… letting each river run where it belongs.

Building Infrastructure

This isn’t about choosing between rivers. Both are essential. Both are appropriate. Both are exactly the right amount for what they’re meant to do.

But they need different channels:

• Different time
• Different space
• Different people who want what each one carries
• Different work that uses each kind of flow

The caregiving river already has its infrastructure – even when it’s overwhelming, the channel exists. The creative river is what’s been backing up, trying to run through channels that don’t want it, causing the exhaustion I’ve been calling “too much.”

The Shift

From: “I’m too much and need to contain myself”

To: “I have abundant flow that needs proper channels”

From: “Others have to tolerate my overflow”

To: “Some fields are positioned to receive what I carry”

From: “I need to apologise for my excess”

To: “I need to build infrastructure for my abundance”

This is the shift from apologetic overflow to unapologetic nourishment. From trying to be less to recognising that the problem was never the amount – it was the mismatched infrastructure.

Belonging to Myself

I’m learning that belonging to myself doesn’t mean fitting into spaces that were never designed for me. It means recognising which fields actually want my water. Which work wants my ideas. Which people encourage rather than tolerate my creative excess.

It means understanding that when the caregiving river needs everything (which it sometimes does and should) that’s not a sign I’m doing it wrong. That’s just flood season in that particular landscape.

And it means giving the creative river its own channel. Not waiting for permission. Not apologising for the joy. Just finding, or building, the places where that particular kind of flow is welcome.

The joyful burn doesn’t struggle. It just moves. Because it’s in the right topography.

I’m learning to trust that I can build the right topography for both rivers. That I don’t have to choose. That abundance properly channelled isn’t burden – it’s irrigation.

The fields that need what I carry? They’re not tolerating me.

They’re drinking.

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This piece emerged from my morning writing practice at a cottage in Scotland, where I sat down to write about sunrise and ended up writing about water. Again. Some metaphors won’t let you go until you understand what they’re trying to tell you.
The original poem, along with others about rivers, floods, mud and weathering storms can be found here. https://www.instagram.com/p/CG9hcXEll6u/?igsh=amNpN3B1YmhhcGZv