“They both listened silently to the water, which to them was not just water,
but the voice of life, the voice of Being, the voice of perpetual Becoming.”
My life, much like the landscape around me, seems very parched at the moment.
Dry. Dusty. Desolate.
It’s as if someone or something higher up the mountain has restricted rain and snow to flow from the peak to the floor.
And so I’m thirsty.
I want people to come closer, projects to make noise, places to find color. I want the fear of fire instantly combusting to flee.
But I’m also hopeful.
A blizzard came yesterday, and I watched water rush through a creek bed once again. I saw snow fall from the trees and splash into its waters. I heard a duck chuckle downstream.
It all made me happy.
And it helped me continue believing that the soil of my soul would be soaked again.