Some days, I don’t feel like a person, I feel like a tide. Rising, receding, reshaping everything without ever meaning to. I’ll be making coffee and suddenly find myself crying over the freshly grated cane sugar that I insist on using. Not sad, just… full.
Water doesn’t just break down doors. It seeps. It softens. It returns again and again until even the hardest stone gives in. This weekend, water showed up everywhere for me, not just in the rain that pelted the hen coop roof like it was trying to make a point, but in my dreams, in my bones, in the quiet ache behind my ribs (my heart, I think… 🤔)
Emotionally, I was flooded. Not drowning, just submerged. The kind of submerged where you can hear your own heart beat louder than the world. That in-between silence, like being underwater and knowing you’ll surface when it’s time.
Plants don’t resist the rain. They open to it. Let it soak them down to the roots. And maybe that’s what this weekend asked of me, to stop resisting. To let the feelings come. Let them flow. Let them carry away the sediment of old stories I’ve told myself for far too long.
There’s wisdom in water. She reminds me that “stillness” is action. That “rest” isn’t retreat. That “soft” isn’t weak. This weekend, she asked me to pour myself back into the cup of my own care.
And so I did. I cried. I stretched. I sat still. I soaked. I let the storm pass through, and when it did, I noticed something had shifted. Something had healed.
We are mostly water, after all. It would be foolish to pretend we’re anything else.
Yard 2 Yield! 