I want to learn the language of water. Surely it is a tongue that will
ease the suffering of trying to speak the Babel of this world.
It is a language of movement into all places, all conditions, solving
and dissolving its way through all media and at all times, without hesitation
or inhibition. You may take a ride at any time with her. She will take
you wherever she wants you to go, moving effortlessly from one place to another,
one form to another; she is reconstituted, changing location, taking with her
whatever we give her without complaint, harmful or harmless, a mother that
gives without end, she spreads herself over all the lands and throughout
the atmosphere, recycling herself indefinitely into every seam, every
pore, every rocky niche, every root and branch.
Humans have harnessed fire in many forms, warming the chill of morning,
into ever-expanding forms of industry and invention. The seduction of
fire, the appeal and the illusion created with its use, as Charles
Eisenstein described so well in an The Age of Water, is that its use
is linear. The fuel, whether ancient of recent, delivers and is gone.
It is oxidized, vaporised and very little is left. The process is repeated
ad infinitum, making life ever more comfortable and convenient.
Imagine all the forms of human achievement facilitated by fire. And the fuel is
inexhaustible. We can burn forever. Oh, wait. No. That last part isn’t true.
Some forms of fuel reconstitute themselves. Others do not.
No new water is being made naturally. No water is being destroyed…..anywhere,
ever. Yet its restorative capacities are limited. Water has no words,
yet speaks all languages. The language of water is patience, finding its
way into all things, all voids, no matter how long it takes. It has no
agenda, no quarterly review, no plan, no timetable, no goals and no looking
back. She has taken her time to manufacture the entire natural world, yet
did not set out to do any of that.
Or…. did she?
The language of water is stillness. It has nowhere to go until it moves
with gravity, sunlight, heat or cold, in sickness and in health until
death do they part. It is blind and sees all things. It is imagination
in form even as it is formless; taking itself into all forms, assuming
the shape of all containers.
Water is beyond our control and it is telling us something important.
It speaks to us in melting ice, drought, the acidifying ocean, in the
monsoon and in the flash flood. It is everywhere and it never stays
in one place. It is talking to itself over and over because every drop has
already been everywhere.
Are we listening?
The language of water is mystery whose story becomes whatever we call it,
goes wherever we take it, however we tell it or hold it and whenever
we let it go. The story is all around us, within us, an invisible story
that lives us, taking us wherever we had no idea we were going. Were we
invented by water itself and then went to sleep at the moment of hearing
our own true tale.
It always flows from source and always spills into the larger being
of itself. And there, at the spilling and the mingling of the parts with
the whole is where our fascination turns, knowing no limits, because
somewhere in our deepest being is the knowledge that we too belong
to a larger whole. There is where we see ourselves becoming more than
we seem to be.
How laughable that some would think to own it. Turning water into a private
commodity is about as true or possible as owning Love itself. Imagine: a market
for Love. No, water owns us; we are its children, its worshippers; by its
grace, we savor its treasure. We are its ancient offspring, gods and
goddesses who could never hope to know it or claim it no matter what fevered
dreams we may conjure, no matter what intoxicating medicines are its issue.
The language of water is a dialect of earth spoken in all regions and in
all times, a mirror of our conflict, our failures, our dreams, a carrier
of our love, our capacities, our divinity, our magic. With infinite patience,
water is the earth’s unconditional love for all life. What we do to her, we do
to ourselves. No two samples are identical, yet in their difference they
tell the same story, a perfect mirror of our turbulent path, our abundance,
our triumphs and our failures.
Drink, she says. Drink me and be cleansed. I will soothe you, sustain you,
speak to you of faraway places that are each your one and only home.
I will dream you, carry you back to your mother’s arms, to her tears,
to her very womb, to the seed that you are, to your origin before thought,
before you ever dreamed, before you ever imagined imagination itself,
and before that.