We finally got a few days of old-school rain. Large drops, audible splashing.
Made me think about water all over everywhere. I am not sure why suddenly a thing of nature, inextricable from our living, part of everything, separated itself and said “Think.” But there you have it.
Think of puddles.
I have lived on a coast most of my life, I couldn’t imagine moving inland. Even when I can’t see the ocean, or the San Francisco Bay, I know they are there. I smell marine on the breeze, seagulls get lost and fly overhead.
Or streams. Think of streams.
When I was young, we lived above a meadow, at the bottom a stream we called The Creek. I would explore, amid poison oak and banana slugs. Everything was wet, the narrow tree trunks, the ferns, the thistles, the rocks. As the oldest, I often explored alone. As I have said, my mother had a cowbell she’d ring when we had to come back for dinner. It clattered more than rang, if I’m precise.
Maybe she called us home for other things, but dinner seems like the right over-arching term.
I am writing along, waiting to know why water, but in the end maybe it’s just to remember that each aspect of our experience can be seen as part of a fabric, or, if we pay attention, a single splashing event.
Have a wonderful weekend. If you feel so inclined, tell me about your streams, your rivers, your lakes, your seas. Ah. Here’s a thought. It’s possible I’m seeking comfort, as we continue to do what’s needed for my mother, in that which always moves and never changes.