I am sitting on my makeshift balcony where I have nested for the past two months of solitude. 

A large open window receives the part of the sky where I have been lying with the sun, following the circular dance of the Earth around it.

The constant, warm, intense sunshine breaks into a peaceful spring rain. I felt its arrival approaching yesterday, and this morning—my animal senses are more tightly tuned after days of only a little stimulus.

The clouds release their weight. Millions of water droplets mix with bits of the Earth each moment. The air fills with a scent of renewal and memory. Birds sing their messages and songs without pause.

I am brought back to my lush, mountain-tucked childhood home in the months of summer. I am excited and humbled by the memory. I am called to acknowledge the moment. Other tasks can wait.

It is not just water falling from the sky. The rainfall is an arrival and departure all at once. It is a newborn and an ancestor. It is fresh at the moment, but it has fallen for all of the moments, ever. It is our history living in the present.

Memories of being wrapped in blankets on a wooden swing next to my mother, protected under the covered porch while the rain fell, visit me. Memories of running around my house naked with the water hitting my skin and the wet dirt and grass mixing with my toes pull me to the edge of my window.

This water is meant to touch my body. It is intended to enter my home in its sweet, delicate drops. This water is inside of me, and it creates me.

Thank you, water. 

Thank you for nourishing the Earth and making the flower blossoms sing. For morphing to whatever temperature I need to soothe my throat. For holding the nutrients of bones and herbs to heal me. For clearing my windows so I can feel the sunlight. For letting plants have a chance to grow roots and live. 

Thank you for letting me express feelings that have no words, no specification. For soothing my skin and body and holding the sound of my hesitant voice. For teaching me how to hear the inner dance of my cells and organs. 

Thank you for modeling how to release and flow so that I can float in faith. For boldly claiming space through the center of the city I live in, and becoming my closest confidant at any moment I need. 

Thank you for continuing to flow through unnatural pipes in our man-made systems so you can nourish each of our lives. For maintaining integrity as millions of people treat you as a commodity to be bought and sold inside plastic containers.

Humans are in a battle with water now. Sometimes fluid invades our lungs and leaves us unable to breathe.

“How do we heal people who harm people? I think we do that by giving them a space to feel how they were hurt themselves.” ~ Lyla June 

Water speaks through us. 

Perhaps water brings us grief at this moment, so we hear the cries of anguish within its memory-holding structures. 

After too many contaminations, disregards, and maltreatments, it is time for water to be given space. 

To be seen. To be heard. To be offered gratitude.