The way the water whispers

I waded in the water

She said: ‘Welcome home, my daughter

You are safe here now

Meet the sage here, now

We have messages for you

Will you listen and trust your truth?

You no longer have to fight

You are invited to take flight

Yes, it’s scary but you must move

There is nothing more to prove

But you will have to start again,

You must learn to dance in rain

Just be patient,

We promise to ease the pain

Don’t worry who we are

We’ve been with you all long

We are your ancestors and angel’s

We’re your family from afar

We are the great mother Gaia,

the earth, the air, the water, and the fire

We are the barn owls singing songs in trees,

The butterflies assembling alongside the birds and the bees

We share our messages in the sand

And right here where you sit, enriched the mud with our very own hands

We sent our letters as whispers to the water

Prepared this moment for you, to welcome home our dear daughter

We want you to see how simple this is

This body, this life, this earth - it’s bliss!

We want you to feel joy again

To see you dance despite the growing pains

Child of the world, return to your roots

Listen to the winds, allow the confusion to transmute

May you know that you are rooted in radiance

As you explore all the earth’s gradients

Oh! You will go to glorious places

And oh! You’ll be met by such kind faces

Just be patient - please, beloved

Appreciate these changing phases

Here, where divine grace is 🐋

Over there, you will write poems

And over there, the next moves will be shown

And then there, you will realize you were, are, and all at once, always at home.

A few months ago, I came to sit at my favourite spot. And I remember writing this poem just before I learned I was to move country. It's been a while since I have sat in a natural body of water. It was about 200 and something days ago to be exact, and I've never been good at maths so we'll stay away from the numbers. There have also been about 200 and something poems. The most memorable thing about this day, some months ago, was the white owl I saw sitting in a nearby branch. it was the first time I heard it's sound, a terrible screech that is also quite spectacular. It is January now, and the cold is beginning to bite harder. I read the poem again and again before deciding to get into the water - still waiting for her messages, for these elusive 'next steps'.

And something called me to the water again this one afternoon in particular, just the other day to be exact. I hadn't produced a piece of writing for months, and I was growing frustrated with myself. Discouraged in the waiting, trying to rush myself to produce. And the loveliest thing happened. I heard a screech nearby, and I had to investigate. After about an hour of looking around, fearing that some poor animal had been trapped in one of those contraptions you see in the movies, or hoping it was in fact some owls, the hero and the hopeful in me gave up. And I resided to sit, shallow in the freezing cold water, and instead of writing frantically, like I had been instructed to do by the water last time I visited her, I just sat there.

No words, no pen and paper, no cigarette in hand, just me and the water. And for the first time in months, I surrendered to the silence. And I was reminded that the waiting was the gift. And ever so slightly, when I surrendered to the silence some more, the shrill sound came again. In the distance, I saw the most marvellous and reassuring site; two barn owls looking at each other from the old barn and a branch across the lagoon. The one looked as though it was standing guard, waiting on the branch, trying to be brave, singing support to the other as she flew and foraged. And they both looked very different, but both very very happy. and capable.

And though I didn't know just yet what this meant, I began to think of myself as the owl. As not just one, but 6 owls circled around the lake, welcoming in the evening sky, as though they were merely practicing their lift off for the evening's feast. And it was the most simple and bizarre thing, but it made me think. That with all their wisdom and all their knowledge, maybe we're not so different sometimes from the one owl who is sitting on the bench. And perhaps that owl is scared, but perhaps the owl is waiting. And in his waiting, he is worthy.

At the end of my paddle, I went to the lake attendant and asked him if he knew much about owls around here. He explained that he'd been observing these owls for weeks now, and the littlest of the owlets had not taken off for days. But he had watched how it made the most noise, and played an integral part of the family building new nests and homes. And so, though I have tried many times to record the owl since that day, just the other day, I have failed to hear there words. But this is the story that I drew up, that the old lake attendant reminded me of,

"My dear, sometimes we want things to go one way, and they end up going in the very opposite direction. At the most painful times, they go nowhere at all. The worry shifts into the waiting, and this turns to suffering. When you watch how the owls sit and fly and forage, and then you look more closely at the branch, you will see that there is a wider plan in place. What the owl doesn't know as he sits, the wind is preparing a mild storm that will make the tree shake and the owl will have no choice but to fly. And when he does, he will know exactly what to do. But for now, we wait. And that should be enough for the story right now."