I had a vision in the silence. There is a sparkling, clear aquifer deep
under the earth. It took hundreds of
years to become this way. Water filtered
down through hard rock, clay, roots of trees, grass, and air, even through our own
bodies. It filters through everything in
our world and has always existed. The
only way for it to become truly clean is for it to move ever gently through the
earth to where it collects in one place, together. It is a celebration of
interconnectedness. It is evidence that
we are all touched in some way by the same substance, by one of the elements
that give us life. It is an ancient idea
ever living and changing. And it is
gentle. It is very gentle. It takes time. The water is powerful in its patience and its
loyalty to the laws of gravity. It can
do nothing but collect together. It is
powerful in its ability to transform. It
can be caught, but it can escape. It
escapes because we need it. It will
always be needed. We will always be
thirsty. Life is about satisfying this
thirst.
The pure water is rare anymore. I grew up drinking, bathing, swimming, and
cooking, with water from a huge aquifer under the wetlands of the Sacramento
Valley in California. In the summer, the
well would bring the water effortlessly to the surface. I could feel the aquifer under the red clay
dirt of the open fields.
It was delicious. It
felt good on my body, like it was conducting electricity from one nerve to
another making me whole. I could become
new again in the water. It was a clean
that had nothing to do with scrubbing, soap, or heat.
The creeks and rivers were never far away. They were inviting and clean with deep clear
pools filled with gray and white rocks.
Life-abound in the water and by its shores. It changed the rocks, the sandstone hillsides
from year to year. The water never
stopped. We dove, waded, swam, floated,
and splashed. We made a ritual out of
visiting Clear Creek in Happy Valley, where I lived as a small child near
Redding, California. There were mossy,
slimy big rocks to climb over and shallow creek beds to navigate. My tiny foot
would step on uneven rocks with balance so lightly given that even the flow of
the water was accounted for in the strength of my step. I can still hear the constant tiny bells of
the water against rocks and static white noise of rushing water. There was so much to know to stay safe, but
the rules were simple, and reliable. The
water was powerful, but it always let me in. The water was cold. It forced
me to take a deep breath and to cry out with the kind of joy that accompanies a
ride on a roller coaster, eyes open wide, mouth in a wide tight circle, body
held stiff with anticipation.
Exhilarating!
The ponds were warm on the top and cool underneath. So misleading. They were still and responsive. If there was movement, it was shared like a
secret among school children. Ponds were
alive below the surface, where things could hide and multiply. Frogs, fish, plants, and bugs would
fill the water to capacity. Adding
myself to the mix felt warm and alive, but murky. My only demise would have been to swim out
too far and not have the energy to get back.
The air was often swarming with life just waiting to be eaten by the
creatures in the pond. The entire life
cycle could be played out around that microcosm of a hole with a trickle of
water flowing through.
I live a new life with water, now. Time has made demands on our water. It holds the life that we give it. In all of its forms, it cleans, cools,
transports, powers, quenches, cooks, grows, destroys, and more. How could humans disrespect something that is
so close to our very existence? We need
it. Like we need love. Its presence and movement is unpredictable. So we save it, just in case. We clean it and recycle it. We also dirty the water in ways that change its
very essence. Now, why do we do
this?
Stop here.
We need it like we need love. We are born out of water. We float in a warm, loving, dark, pool of
water before we are born. We breathe liquid in the womb of our mothers. Our bodies are formed in amniotic fluid. Then the water breaks and birth follows. New life arrives out of water. The air we
breathe contains water. It is easy to
stop water from flowing, and then again it is notoriously hard to stop. You know this if you have ever wet your
pants. It is frightening and dangerous
at one moment and life giving at another.
Yet, at other times, it is completely neutral. It is the particles that make up a
rainbow.
We learn to process water through our bodies by quenching
our thirst and then responding to pain with release. To become civilized, we control the way
water goes through our bodies. Liquid is
transformed in our systems and a whole new product comes out. So, it seems natural that we would figure out
how to put water into a system and allow it to be used and transformed into
something unclean. Are we just doing
something that comes natural to us? It's not unlike when we run water through the cooling tower of a nuclear power plant. We are a creative species. Perhaps thinking up new ways to process things is what we do best.
A vision of the crystal clear aquifer comes back to me when
I get muddled with thoughts of dams, erosion, levees, fracking, and melting
glaciers. I see the strength of the
earth holding back the rushing water.
Then rocks and dirt move aside and allow themselves to be deposit in another place,
a process held together by gravity. This
movement is fluid, forever changing from soft to hard. The earth holds the water with gentle
support. Never possessing it against
its will. The water breaks her, softens
her, and moves her aside, but never destroys her, for the two are
connected. They are connected like they
are with all living things. Like voluntary and involuntary bodily functions,
it is an eternal dance of opening and closing, freedom and force. Maybe we have something to learn from this relationship. Sacred bodies, sacred earth.
Learn More: Things to See and Hear
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