THE ONENESS OF WATER

IMAGE: BRITANNICA

              ナイヤガラ奈落に落ちて空に舞う

              Niagara Falls
              Falling into an abyss,

              Rising to heaven.
                  SOSUI - NOBUYUKI YUASA

I’ve just finished Abraham Verghese’s colossal novel, The Covenant of Water.
It was the title that originally took me in; water’s my favorite compound, and “covenant” suggests a sort of spiritual accord, which speaks to my relationship
with Nature.

When the author finally gets around to explaining the title—on page 706—he re-
fers back to water’s continuity throughout the story’s unfurling, connecting places, connecting people and families. And that’s got me thinking about my beloved water in a new light.

Of course I agree with Verghese’s take that water connects us. It does that most literally as a medium of transportation. But also, since it makes up about 60 percent of our bodies, water is something we all—every known form of life—depend on for our very lives. It makes us, if not blood relatives, at least akin by chemistry.

And one could say water unites us culturally. Its awesome power—that contradiction of brute force and ethereal beauty—has inspired human beings, since our genesis, to share the fascination through literature, art and other creative expression.

IMAGE: WikiArt

PERPETUAL NOTION
We know that, aside from a few renegade hydrogen atoms escaping into the atmosphere, not one molecule of water is ever lost in the hydrologic cycle. The substance, from clouds to rain, to lakes and streams, to rivers, to the oceans and back again to clouds, never diminishes. It simply changes state.

So a molecule melting from this ice cube in my lemonade might be the very same molecule lapped up on the first known dinosaur’s, Nyasasaurus’s, tongue 243 million years ago.

Incredible! But there's another, albeit related, angle on the oneness of water.

    Never once during that odyssey would the boat
    not be completely immersed in H2O.

RACCOON WALKS INTO A (SAND)BAR
Besides that molecular perpetuity, water, at least in its liquid state, is also what I’d call physically continuous. If one could follow a single drop of it from a melted snowflake on the sun-kissed shoulder of Everest down the mountain’s flank, I assert that there’s a direct, material connection between each of that drop’s 1.67 sextillion molecules* and every other molecule of flowing and pooling water on planet earth.

IMAGE: NASA

IMAGE: Taiyo

Imagine a nano-submarine, one considerably smaller than our water drop. A nano-submari- ner could steer his craft through that drop and
into all its sequential minglings into rivulets, rills and runnels. Then through brooks, creeks and rivers. Next, through ponds and lakes,
and possibly back to rivers. And finally into
the sea.

Never once during that odyssey would our little submarine not be completely immersed in H2O.

This means that, when a raccoon piddles in a river’s shallows here in Minnesota / USA, that critter becomes part of this indivisible body of water, its little stream literally linked into the universal stream. (Unfortunately, so does the chemical plant spewing its toxic waste into a drainage ditch.)

And, eventually, a molecule of either will show up in someone’s lemonade.

      What if we and all those other organisms,
      like water, are just a single, continuous thing?

A QUESTION TO PONDER
So what does all this mean? What it means to me is that, as much as we may think of all the various bodies of water clinging to Earth’s surface as separate entities, there’s really only one entity, one body of water.

Among the countless ways Nature informs our species, this one, too, poses a question to ponder: What if we think of the entirety of life on our precious planet as I’ve just described water? What if, despite our best efforts to differentiate ourselves one from another and from other forms of life, we and all those other organisms, like water, are just a single, continuous thing?

This argument of our essential oneness is nothing new. It’s already the stuff of religious doctrines, environmental treatises and even—relatively recently—physics.

But I’ve never heard it compared to this amazing, inseparable quality of water. It illustrates that, as with distant links in the water cycle, what happens to a destitute Gazan family whose “safe zone” was just bombed by Israel, and what happens to a baby girl just born into a life of peaceful privilege in the antipodal Tahiti are just as connected as the waters of the Mediterranean Sea are to those of the South Pacific.

IMAGE: Eyad Baba/AFP/Getty

IMAGE: Westend61 GmbH

          They’re humanity's one and only hope
          for survival.

NATURE’S TRUTH
This notion of the unity of life seems especially pertinent now, as once-egalitarian, world-aware governments worldwide choose to break off into their own little is-
lands of “populist” self-centeredness.

Including the United States, where around half of our voting population apparently feels quite threatened by the idea that the interests of all human beings might be connected. In fact, the politics of their “Trumpublican” party is wholeheartedly committed to division.

Values that have characterized the most successful cultures in history should never have been politicized. Striving for communication, cooperation, compassion and respect for our shared environment isn’t a judgement on folks who lack empathy or fear government overreach. Kindness and generosity aren’t some touchy-feely utopia dreamed up by a “liberal elite."

No, they’re a bit more authentic than that. They're humanity's one and only hope for survival.

So, let us not, dear God, abandon these, the moral lessons taught in nearly every spiritual persuasion just because they're espoused by our political rivals. Let us embrace Nature’s truth about our innate connections, and seek the oneness—the wisdom—of water.

                       “We need to strengthen the conviction 
                         that we are one single human family.”
                                POPE FRANCIS

* Using something called Avogadro's number, the number of molecules in a
   drop of water is calculated at 1.67 x 10⌃21—or 1.67 sextillion.
   SOURCE: ThoughtCo.com

WATER, WIND AND SPIN – My Go-round With the June, 1981 Minneapolis Tornado

For some reason I’ve been thinking about fluid dynamics. Maybe it’s that, after yet another long northern winter, our 11,842 lakes here in Minnesota are finally turning back to fluid. Or the prospect of soon getting out on the St. Croix River in my little canoe—that is if we’re spared the river’s usual spring flooding.

Another reason might be that it will soon be prime tornado season here. (From May through July Minnesota averages 41 twisters each year.) Wait…fluid dynamics and tornadoes?

I could, and probably should, write a post just about all the ways air acts like water. Suffice it to say for now that how water drains from a sink or bathtub, how it swirls—counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere—is exactly the way air acts during nearly all tornadoes. And yes, just like water, most tornadoes spin clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere.

A DRAINING EXPERIENCE
It’s June 14, 1981—a Sunday—a bit before 4 PM. I’m upstairs in my little house on 16th Avenue South, Minneapolis, chipping away 60 years of paint that's lost its grip on a window sill. Though it’s far from taxing work, I’m sweating.

The air outside, and even more so inside—on the second floor of a non-air-conditioned house—is thick with humidity. I’m grateful for the occasional waft of breeze that finds me.

The work is pleasant. I’m accomplishing something, listening to some nice Hall & Oates on the stereo, and Bess, my sweet black lab, is lying on the rug beside me, panting.

At one point, I notice it’s getting kind of dark outside, and now those breezes are holding their breath. You can almost smell the rain coming. Oh well, I figure, I’ll work until I feel it on my hands.

 A few minutes later the gunmetal sky and everything I can see out the window has taken on an eerie greenish cast. I realize this can’t be good.

I don’t remember hearing the civil defense sirens going off. Just that soon it’s raining, then hailing. Then the air starts churning…and that’s when I hear it.

          I picture the massive, vacuum-cleaning
          vortex swirling overhead.

SO MUCH DUST

Nearly everyone who’s lived through a tor-
nado says they heard an unearthly rumbling heading toward them. Like a freight train. That’s exactly what I hear. Bess hears it too and gets really squirrelly.
 
I’d been fascinated with tornadoes ever since I was a boy and always wished I could see one. I admired those daredevils who tear along back roads in Kansas, Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle to document them. And here’s my moment; I’m about to be in the middle of one. But I can tell you, what I’m experiencing is not a thrill.

IMAGE: The Weather Channel

I imagine the massive, vacuum-cleaning vortex swirling overhead. And here’s this flimsy little house, these two minute creatures helpless in its path. If it’s an F4 or F5, we’re like so much dust.

I take the cues and start down to the basement. First I shut the window, and I feel my ears pop as if something just sucked all the air out of the house. In the kitchen I grab some candles and my portable radio and by the time we reach the cellar it’s like we’re under a trestle and the train is thundering right over us.

     The entire roof of the three-story apartment
     building next door gets lifted off and dropped
     across my back yard and garage.

FOREST FOR THE TREES
We’re not in the basement for more than a few minutes when the ominous roar ebbs. And we still have a roof over our heads! I head cautiously up the stairs and, thank God, everything appears intact.

It’s when I go outside that I see the destruction. Eighty-foot, half-century-old trees ripped from the ground. Cars piled on one another. Large sheets of drywall and other building materials strewn in the street. (I later find out they’re from the Sears yard a mile away.) And the entire roof of the three-story apartment building next door lifted off and dropped across my back yard and garage.

IMAGE: teapots happen

• The so-called Har Mar tornado, rated an F-3 with winds reaching nearly 200 miles per hour, was on the ground for 26 minutes.

• The human toll: two fatalities, 6 serious injuries, more than 80 minor injuries. (Experts considered it miraculous that these numbers weren't much higher.)
• Other impact: $47 million in property damage; 1,300 homes, 50 businesses and 400-plus vehicles damaged or destroyed; 3,500 trees killed; some 30,000 customers without power.*

So I’ve finally experienced my tornado, up close and personal. I suppose that affords me certain bragging rights. But, ironically—and disappointingly—I’ve yet to see one. Maybe this tornado season I’ll get that chance (from a safe distance this time).
                                               ~       •      ~       •      ~      

TIP #30 ON HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT:
Blow toward a candle from across the room.
Air's like this magical, invisible liquid. It ebbs and flows, pours in to fill voids, lifts huge things...like roofs and wings.
Like a wave, your blown breath rolls across the room. Will there be enough left of it to make lap candle’s tongue of flame?
FROM UNDER THE WILD GINGER – BY JEFFREY WILLIUS

* Storm data thanks to CBS News, WCCO and Minnesota Public Radio, and
   Hennepin County Emergency Management.

IT'S A SNAP

IMAGE: JoyGenea.com

Here’s a thought: How do you explain to someone what left and right are (assuming they have no help from signage)? Do you remember how you learned?

I do. Until I was three or four, I don’t think I had a clue. But once my mother figured out that I was right-handed, she taught me how to snap my fingers. I learned quickly to do it with my right hand; never really gave much thought to trying it with my left.

After that, any time I was in doubt about which way was right, all I had to do was snap my fingers.

OFF TO MEXICO – Yum-m-m!

I'm like a hungry man about to sit down to a hearty four-course meal. That's how I'm feeling on the eve of my 32nd trip to Mexico. 

(They've all been wonderful, but his time will be even more so. First, because last year's visit got stymied by a last-minute health scare. Second, because this time my whole family is coming down to help Sally and me celebrate my big, round-number birthday. (Rhymes with weighty.))

As beautiful as Minnesota winters can be, they starve us of sensation. Against this backdrop of bland whites and grays and taupes, we're challenged to find the sustenance of color in detail and nuance—like a rosy cheek or a tenacious freeze-dried crab apple. Smells are served unseasoned, frozen in midair. Sound, too, seems squeezed out of its luscious fullness like dried fruit. Even touch is blunted by layers of nylon (most of it black, it seems), feathers and fleece.

   A Minnesotan would be dragged before
   the neighborhood association for painting his 
   house these vivid shades of pink, blue or gold.

In most of Mexico, including Zihuatanejo, Guerrero where I'm headed, climate and culture collaborate to nourish one with colors, sounds, smells and flavors.



The colors: a Minnesotan would be dragged before the neighborhood association for painting his house these vivid shades of pink, blue or gold. The smells: so often they reveal, where sights may not, the real life that's going on beyond the sphere of one's sanitized tourist experience. The tastes: there's nothing dried or preserved about them; they're fresh and true and sometimes surprising. And the touch, oh, the caress of that soft, warm, delicious air pouring in off the Pacific!

Even the sounds of this place transport me: the haunting, three-note pan-flute plea of the itinerant knife sharpener; the blare of música norteña from passing cars and work sites; the other-worldly rasping of a covey of chachalacas. And behind it all, the soft, sure respiration of the surf.



Maybe it's the warmth that unlocks both stimuli and senses. Belying the laid back, unhurried lifestyle, the sensations of Mexico stir in me a subtle sense of urgency. A mango, for example, just picked from the tree outside our villa door, is such a beautiful form just to look at. But no sooner than it begins to blush with full color you have to eat it or it loses its tang and turns to mush. So many beautiful things are transient.

And Zihuatanejo's a place of seamless flow between indoor and outdoor life. With little notion of that confinement we Minnesotans suffer during winter, you sense everything going on —in El Centro, down at Playa La Ropa out on Zihuatanejo Bay—and want to be a part of it all. But it's okay; anything you do—even nothing at all—feels completely satisfying, thoroughly nourishing of body and spirit.

HUNKERED DOWN – When Wonder Moves Indoors

It's the depth of winter here in Minnesota. Not to worry; we're hearty souls. Generally, we don't let that stop us from enjoying life, even life outdoors—which, by the way, is still full of great beauty and life.

        A person's need for discovery and wonder 
        doesn't get left at the door like the parka 
        and boots.

Nonetheless, below zero wind chills conspire with the sun's quitting at 4:30 to make us spend far more time cooped up inside than we do in the summer. Some- times we have no choice but to hunker down for a couple of days and wait out a blizzard and the arctic deep freeze that so often follows.

But a person's need for discovery and wonder doesn't get left at the door like the parka and boots. Even indoors we're curious; our child side still needs to play, learn and experience delight.

Of course, there's always TV, a good book or the Internet to help pass the long, dark hours. But these, I submit, are remote, second-hand experiences. They may entertain or inform us, but do they nourish a curious soul?

Even indoors I'm always surprised and delighted at how many real-life, present-moment natural wonders await discovery when I'm willing to look with care. Here are just a few examples:

       Study the strokes and patterns; marvel 
       at the feathered crystalline brushwork; 
       imagine how the artist determined where 
       each element in the composition would go.

Could there be a more elegant artistic expression than the crystalline masterpieces Nature renders with water? Outdoors, of course, it’s snow; whether seen as flake or drift, it's the most sublime of sculptures. Indoors, though, relegated to the two-dimensional “canvas” of frozen glass, she once again outdoes herself.

Look closely at frost; study the strokes and patterns; marvel at the feathered crystalline brushwork; imagine how the artist determined where each element in the composition would go. Touch it; see how ephemeral it is. See if you can melt it without quite touching it.

Perhaps the one thing that changes most when our world moves indoors is our appreciation of things that live and grow. Instead of marveling at trees, shrubs or flowers in their natural, wild setting, we devise ways to shrink, capture and confine them in pots that clamber close to windows. Try not to take them for granted. These plants, for their staunch, surrogate duty, are all the more worthy of our notice.

For our indoor animal fix, we turn from summer's chancy thrill of spotting critters in their own realms and on their own terms to the certainty of specimens we've shaped to our convenience, bred to need no more than our care and attention. Take advantage of these most opportune occasions to relish your closeness to these dear creatures.

    The subtle white, comet-tail streaks suggest the 
    seeds have streaked out from center. And there 
    they’ve landed, on the vivid, glossy surface of 
    the fruit, each cupped in its own tiny crater. 

Instead of discovering a strange new fruit or nut on a wild plant somewhere in the woods, we learn in winter to explore things closer at hand, perhaps things so common we never thought to look at them with wonder. For example, have you stopped to appreciate the elegance of line, color, form and texture in a freshly sliced strawberry?

See how the flesh morphs from furry, white, womb-like core into sweet, solid crimson. Note the subtle white, comet-tail streaks that suggest the seeds have streaked out from center. And there they’ve landed, on the vivid, glossy surface of the fruit, each cupped in its own tiny crater.

Would you agree that discovery and wonder need not be lost on the home-bound? See if you can find "wild" living critters like meal worms, spiders or perhaps the occasional holdover ladybug. See what you can discover about another person. Play with soap bubbles or static electricity. Explore the attic. Cook something. Try to...ah-h-h...wait a second...whoa-a-a!...I'm sorry, I have a fire going in the fireplace, and there's this...amazing bright blue...tongue of flame…

A BAGGY COAT – A New Years Reflection

During this season of generosity swirling with obligation, of simple joy made sad by unmet expectation, of grateful abundance diminished by addictive excess, I'm trying on, once more, the baggy coat of acceptance, a garment whose fit depends on not its own but the wearer's measure.

         

What do you need to accept or let go of to allow the grateful, hopeful spirit of New Years wrap comfortably around you?

GOD SPELLED BACKWARDS – A Schnauzer’s Prayer

My dog prays. Every day. To God.

How do I know this? Okay, I’m not saying Sylvia sits up, puts her front paw pads together and recites her Glory Be's. No, the way I know is that she’s actually asked for a little help.

So, every morning, right after breakfast, I grab my coffee, plop down in my easy chair and Sylvie—our precious miniature schnauzer—hops up in my lap. She turns and looks up at me expectantly until I start.

            …and oh, my God, those real bones
            with meat on them!

That’s not the only reason I know about Sylvie's spiritual side. I can see it in the way she interacts with me and the rest of her world. Always in the moment, one with her environment; does love like no human being I’ve ever known; and, though she might appear to take everything for granted, just exudes gratitude, for even the smallest things.

Unlike us human beings, who’ve managed to complicate our connection to the divine with our own conceits, that of animals is just a straight-up, no-pretensions conduit of love.

So of course she wants to pray. Granted, she only has about a 50-word vocabulary and has trouble pronouncing even those few words. So that’s where I come in. I provide the lap…and the voice. Now you may think it’s just my own voice, my own ideas. But that’s not how it feels to me. What really happens is that I channel Sylvie; I actually feel what she’d say if she could:

Dear God, thank you, thank you, thank you for this beautiful day. This precious day of living, sensing, feeling…and loving.

Thank you for my Mommy and Daddy. For our home and all the cushy places where I get to snooze and snuggle. Thank you for our walks and all of Nature’s sights and sounds…and especially the smells—my way of keeping track of all the critters who’ve tried claiming my turf in the past few days.

Like those squirrels, they don't smell much, but they drive me nuts. They wait till I'm almost on them, flicking those bushy tails, just to taunt me. I always fall for it, but I've never once caught one.

Thank you for my kibble, especially when Mommy or Daddy adds a little chicken. For the smorgasbord of tidbits they manage to drop on the floor. And for those crunchy little Milk Bone treats…and oh, my God, the real bones with meat on them!

    Help me to be a good girl. To make
    Mommy and Daddy smile and not frown.

Thank you for playing, for running, fetching and tug-of-war. For hide & seek and catch…and oh, tummy rubs! Thank you for all my toys: my lobster, skeleton, Nylabones and tennis balls…even though any old stick would do.

Thank you for my friends: our neighbors, Merrily, who always has a treat for me, and Megan who might just love me more than Daddy and Mommy do; and all my puppy friends at doggy day care. Especially Yogi, who’s my size and looks like me.

God, please help me to be a good girl. To make Mommy and Daddy smile and not frown. And to protect them from folks I don’t know—especially when they try to come into our house. No one seems to like that, but I can’t help it.

Please bless us all, and keep us safe and healthy. And for us and all the folks we love let it be a very good day.

Sylvia doesn’t know about “amen,” so I add that for her.

What do you think? Might your pet pray if you provided the lap and the voice? If not to God, perhaps to St. Francis, patron saint of animals, to the Great Spirit or to whatever manifestation of Universal Intelligence you invoke? You’ll never know unless you try. At the very least, it’s a nice, centering way to start the day—for both of you.

And please, share your experience—or just your thoughts—with the rest of us!