I feel a call to the wellspring. The place where the water bubbles up from the earth as a gift. Where the trickling flow of water soothes a frenzied mind. A secret and wild garden, the plants and trees gathered around a dark pool, reflecting back their beauty. A place that the wind respects, calming to the gentlest of breezes, and where rain falls more softly. A place serenaded by frogs, where birds come to sing. A place where you feel your mind settle back into your body, and your worries flow away from your body. A place where prayers are heard, wishes granted, and blessings bestowed.
Here where I live now, we have paved over the springs forcing them below ground, routing them into our water supply, and restricting access to what was once a freely available, lifegiving space of reciprocity. We used to access these spaces daily – some were practical, used to draw the day’s water, others were decidedly holy, visited for healing, and others yet a place to appease fickle spirits with gifts. It’s difficult to imagine the full benefit of such a place in a world where monetary value is assigned to everything that keeps us alive, and clean water is a privilege, not an integral part of belonging to nature.
For most of us, only the old genetic code woven into our bodies can remember what it was like to be sustained by a wellspring. For convenience, we have traded the morning walk to the well where we would chat with others, the brief moments of connection firing our dopamine more effectively than a scroll through our phones. Our arms are no longer shaped by the heavy work of hauling water. For those of us with means, we are drenched in water daily. Once we found our gratitude and experienced the gift of water in the very labor it took to seek and fetch it. Ease and convenience, in excess, cheapens that which is most precious.
And so it is difficult to remember why a well, springing up from the earth, far from river or stream, was a magical place. Special enough that we would ascribe it a spirit, an entity with personality and intent – to heal, to protect, to purify. As creatures of stories and metaphor, this is our too often forgotten gift to the world – the recognition of the agency of the world around us – the bestowing of humanlike qualities as a way to bridge connection and translate between the language of nature and the language of humans. We are used to thinking of water as an inanimate resource but it is as alive as we are, in the way that only water can be alive.
I wish I could lead us to a sacred well where I would clear the pooling water of fallen leaves, and build a bench for you to sit. I would leave you alone there to make your wish, or offer your gratitude, or simply bask in the serenity of the space.
I may not be able to free our water and bring back the wells, but I can bring back my gratitude. When I take a shower I can spend a moment imagining the water traveling from mountain, or river and flowing away back to the sea. I can whisper a blessing over my water bottle, or pot of soup. I can think about convenience and what it cheapens–and notice for whom life is most convenient.
It’s important to recognize that obtaining access to rest, healing and wellness is not exclusively an individual endeavor. It is something the structures, laws, and economy of our life must provide. Water, as a symbol, has long represented emotions and care, both of which are cheapened (like water) in modern life. Mental health has been under-resourced and providing care for others is unpaid and underpaid. The amount of skill and effort required to provide care is consistently undervalued by many of those who set wages, make policies, and enact laws. Tackling this can feel daunting. But if we look to our daily lives, we might ask ourselves what feelings we are trying to carry or manage for others. Is that actually serving anyone? What care are we providing at the expense of rest and enlivenment for ourselves? Can we get clear on what we actually need to thrive and start to ask for that, rather than endlessly seeking to fix ourselves, maximize our time, or do more with less?
We can use the idea of a sacred well to lead us back to that which restores us. What does our ideal place of connection, healing, and nourishment look like and what about that place could we access in our daily lives? What time of rest, or act of solace could we cultivate and protect for ourselves and others? What prayers would we voice if we thought someone was listening? What connections to nature are we longing for? How do we return to the source of life each day? In beginning to answer these questions for ourselves, we can begin to envision a different future. When we can envision it, then we can begin to create it.