Like Water

I'm thinking of all the ways water has of being in the world. I'm thinking how we're made 70% of water and all the ways we have of being in the world.

How sometimes we run like the river to the sea. (Expansion.) Or unfurl like waves with longing to the shore. (Reunion.)

How sometimes we sit like pools, puddles, and ponds. Dank. Muddy. Contained. Pregnant with everything we know. Waiting. Waiting for the rains, the overflow, the dam to break. An outlet. Moving again. Finally.

I'm thinking of how water never ends. It just changes form, places, reasons, ways. But always, it's water. Always just what it needs to be. Strong and fierce enough to carve canyons out of mountains. Gentle and patient enough to smooth a jagged rock. One drop at a time.

I'm thinking of the way water always seems to find a way. A way to clear itself, to settle the mud. A way over, around, under, through. Without pushing. Without trying too hard. Always finding the secret cracks, the holes, the points of least resistance. The points of ease, of flow. True to what's being asked of it in the moment. True to the way truth always changes. True to the forces it's been given in order to move the way it moves best.

I'm wishing for the courage to be more like water (seventy percent?). To live my truth without force. To be with my truth when my truth is ache, longing, desire, unfinished. To hold the paradox of ever-changing flow. To be the fresh rain one day and a mud puddle the next. And to be okay with that. To stop fighting what is. To stop trying so goddamn hard. To just be with it. Roll with it. Go with it. Flow with it.

Because really, whatever way it goes, it always has been, always is, and always will be just what it needs to be.

Like water.