The Night the Nile Slowed My Heart

I have lived sixty-six years on this planet, and I have been many places. Cities that never sleep, mountains that command attention, oceans that roar. I have stood in crowds and on stages, hurried through airports, raced deadlines, chased dreams. But nothing — absolutely nothing — prepared me for the way my heart slowed down in Aswan.

It happened in the evening, October 27, on a felucca, drifting quietly along the Nile.

There was no engine. No rush. Just wind in the sail and water slipping past the hull as if time itself had decided to loosen its grip. The sun lowered gently, painting everything in golds, rusts, soft grays, and the occasional flash of deep red. The river didn’t demand anything from me. It didn’t ask me to think, to explain, or to perform. It simply allowed me to be.

I remember realizing, very suddenly, that my body felt different. My breathing was slower. My thoughts were quieter. My heart — that restless companion I’ve carried through decades of ambition, worry, joy, and grief — finally eased its pace. I was not anxious. I was not anticipating what came next. I was not replaying the past. I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Aswan felt like peace made visible.

The felucca moved as it has for centuries, unchanged, dignified, patient. Watching the shoreline slide by, I felt an overwhelming gratitude for still being healthy enough, curious enough, and open enough to receive a moment like that. At sixty-six, I wasn’t searching for thrills or novelty. I was searching for meaning — and the Nile offered it without words.

Later, back on land, I knew I needed to paint what I felt rather than what I saw. That evening became the watercolor “Aswan 2025.” It is not a literal portrait of a boat. It is a memory. A sensation. A slowing of the heart rendered in line and color.

If you’re curious, you can see the piece here:
👉 Aswan 2025 – Original Watercolor
https://ricklongart.com/products/egypt-collection/aswan-2025-53445700 

I was happy to capture the quiet dignity of that evening — the sail leaning into an unseen wind, the river holding everything steady, the feeling that, for once, nothing needed to be hurried.

I don’t know if I’ll ever find another place that does to me what Aswan did. But I know this: once your heart learns that kind of stillness, it never forgets.

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