From a dripping stone perch at the edge of a rugged, steep, narrow channel of ancient East African rock, the Nile River can be seen, heard, felt, smelled, tasted. The relentless, reckless, arrogant river flexes swirling translucent foaming muscles and screams into an aggressive dive, cascading in explosions of white chaos, crashes 140 feet below, then spreads in slow foam and widens into the first of thousands of bountiful sun-and-moon-drenched miles of life-giving safari north from Uganda, through South Sudan and Saharan Africa until resting in a Mediterranean sabbath. 

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Not long after I moved to Uganda, Sufjan Stevens suggested a tragically comforting cosmic possibility: What the water wants is hurricanes. Water is bountiful, powerful, beautiful, alive. It wants to celebrate. It wants to play. It wants to win. It wants to run, jump, dive, and rest in peaceful warmth. So it does. But water is thoughtless, soulless, unpredictable. Sometimes it plays with creation. Sometimes it destroys it. Throughout human history, water has represented chaos, full of threats that are often not overcome. Humans have learned to put it to use for hydration, health, transportation, even entertainment, but we cannot harness it. Under control, in manageable quantities, it contains power that can deliver abundant life and opportunity. Out of control, in rivers, lakes, oceans, seas--bodies--it threatens life with power that can produce disorder and fatal devastation. Water introduces perplexing mysteries worthy of a lifetime of contemplation.

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The human psyche, the home of contemplation, also houses perplexing mysteries. What the water wants is hurricanes, storms, waterfalls--majestic, unpredictable displays of natural power. What the psyche wants is meaning, significance, relationships--beautiful, essential, unpredictable channels of shared competition, disappointment, and fulfillment. Humans have studied the psyche for centuries, but we’re far from harnessing its power. Instead, more and more of us are driven by weakness through disorder to despair.

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Psychic hurricanes and waterfalls have been part of my life since I developed panic anxiety disorder near the end of my six years living in Uganda. After over a year of fighting against debilitating symptoms of disorder, I fled--afraid of fear, afraid of Africa, afraid of everything. Weeks after leaving, through desperation, I found hope. Months after leaving, through humbling work, I found moments of stability. Years after leaving, moment by moment, I have experienced enough stability to know that abundant life is possible with a disordered psyche.

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Fifteen years after leaving, I returned. In the middle of that turbulent two-week visit, I stood at that perch atop Murchison Falls, completely saturated, overcome by miracles and hope, Nile spray obstructing my breath, masking my tears, and cooling my open eyes, as my fists tightened around a flimsy iron rail for stability in the midst of eternal power, disorder, and mystery. I recognized stability I had not been able to access until I learned to breathe in the midst of a storm from which I could never flee and have learned not to fight. My storm cannot be your storm, but I offer you the following pages with drops of pain, faith, hope, love, loss, and mystery, hoping they lead you closer to eternal stability.