The River That Taught Me to Slow Down

When I moved to Florida in December 2022, I did not arrive with some grand plan involving the Silver River. I was simply trying to settle into a different place and a different season of life.

During our first week here, my father in law, Bill, took Susanna and me to Silver Springs State Park. I had heard of Silver Springs, of course, but hearing about a place and standing beside it are two very different things.

The first thing that caught my attention was the water. It was not just clear. It seemed to reveal an entire world that would normally remain hidden. Fish moved beneath the surface. Turtles rested along the banks. Birds watched from branches overhead. Every few feet, there seemed to be something else worth stopping for.

I left the park that day knowing I wanted to return.

So I did.

For the first six months, I visited nearly every day. Sometimes I carried my camera. Sometimes I simply walked. I spent hours along the boardwalks, especially near Ross Allen Island, waiting to see what might appear.

At first, I was trying to find the big things.

I wanted to see the monkeys. I wanted to see an alligator. I hoped a manatee might surface nearby. Like many visitors, I thought a successful day depended on seeing one of the animals Silver Springs is known for.

Over time, that began to change.

The more time I spent there, the less I felt the need to rush toward the next sighting. I started noticing the smaller things that had always been there.

I noticed how an anhinga climbs onto a branch and spreads its wings toward the sun. I noticed the slight movement of the water before a turtle raised its head. I learned to recognize the sound of a kingfisher before I could see it. I began watching the shadows beneath the surface and understanding which ones belonged to fish, logs, manatees and alligators.

The river was teaching me how to pay attention.

That may sound simple, but it was something I had forgotten how to do.

Like many people, I had become accustomed to moving quickly. There was always another task, another problem, another place I needed to be. Even when my body was standing still, my mind rarely was.

The Silver River did not operate at that pace.

Nothing there appeared because I was impatient. Wildlife did not move according to my schedule. I could not force a manatee to surface, convince an otter to swim past or ask an alligator to move into better light for a photograph.

All I could do was wait, watch and be ready.

Some days I saw almost everything I hoped to see. Other days the river appeared quiet. Those quieter days eventually became just as important to me.

They taught me that there is a difference between seeing nothing and failing to notice what is there.

A quiet stretch of river may still hold dozens of turtles beneath an overhanging branch. A dark shape under the water may become a manatee resting near the bottom. What first appears to be an ordinary limb may turn its head and reveal itself as a barred owl.

The river does not always announce what it is showing you.

You have to slow down long enough to see it.

Photography became part of that lesson too.

A camera can help preserve a moment, but it can also become a distraction if I allow the photograph to matter more than the experience.

Some of my favorite moments on the river were never photographed.

There have been times when I lowered the camera because watching felt more important than recording. I have missed photographs because I was not ready, because the light was wrong or because an animal disappeared before I could focus.

I used to think of those moments as missed opportunities. I do not anymore.

The river is not a collection of photographs waiting to be taken. It is a living place. I am fortunate simply to be present for whatever it chooses to reveal.

Silver Springs became more than somewhere I visited.

As the months passed, I began volunteering on River Patrol. I learned from people who had spent years watching the river and protecting the animals that depend on it. Later, I became a kayak guide and had the opportunity to introduce other people to the place that had already come to mean so much to me.

Guiding changed the way I saw the river again.

I began noticing the moment when a guest stopped paddling because they had spotted something beneath the water. I watched people become quiet when a manatee surfaced nearby. I saw children become fascinated by a turtle they might have passed without noticing anywhere else.

Those reactions reminded me of my own first visits.

They also helped me understand that people are more likely to care about a place once they have formed a connection with it. Facts are important, but connection is what stays with us. When someone sees an animal living freely in its natural home, it becomes more than a photograph or a name on a sign.

It becomes something worth protecting.

The river keeps reminding me.

The Silver River has changed me in ways I did not expect when I first walked into the park with Susanna and Bill. It has made me more patient. It has taught me to listen before speaking and to look before moving on. It has reminded me that some of the most meaningful parts of life cannot be rushed.

I still have days when my mind moves faster than the river. I still become distracted. I still catch myself searching so hard for what I hope to see that I nearly overlook what is directly in front of me.

There is always more happening than we realize.

That is what I hope to share through Notes From the River. These will not simply be articles about animals, kayaking or places to visit. They will be stories about what I have witnessed, what I continue to learn and why this river deserves our attention and our care.

I do not have every answer about the Silver River. I do not believe anyone does. That is part of what keeps me returning.

Every trip offers another opportunity to notice something I missed before.

Sometimes it is a manatee rising beside the kayak. Sometimes it is an otter disappearing around a bend. Sometimes it is nothing more than sunlight reaching through the trees and touching the riverbed.

The river has taught me that none of those moments are small when I am present enough to receive them.