It is hot; the sky, a milky blue. Dawn waterings of my boxwoods, of the five-month old primrose forest saplings, and the creeping myrtle bordering my front walk have sustained their greenness, unlike most of my marigolds and begonias, crisped by months of shimmering heat. Indeed, the lawn looks like the week-old beard of a homeless man, and just as forlorn. Without hydration, nothing lives.

While lugging my hose, burgeoning with water, around my yard, I‘m reminded of other waters, primeval waters depicted in creation myths: Egypt’s smiling god, Nu; China’s Dragon god emerging from the watery depths; India’s Vedas – watering the whole of nature in the form of rain, sap, milk, and blood; and the Hebrews’ Spirit hovering over the waters, as told in the book of Genesis.

Limitless and immortal, these waters are the beginning and the end of all life on earth. Closer to home, we see this when the waters of a woman break, initiating the birth process and plummeting her into motherhood; when the dying ooze dark fluids from orifices, severing the silver cord from body and soul.

Such long thoughts intrigue me, while sloshing waters break apart the arid soil around my crocs. I’ll continue watering …  there is life!

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