I wish I hadn’t cried so much!” said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. “I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That will be a queer thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer today.
Without the wetness of your love,
The fragrance of your water,
Or the trickling sounds of
I shall always feel
Don’t waste water even if you were at a running stream
Praised be my Lord, for our sister water.
St. Francis of Assisi,
Canticle of the Sun
Notice how each particle moves.
Notice how everyone has just arrived here
from a journey.
Notice how each wants a different food.
Notice how the stars vanish as the sun comes up,
and how all streams stream toward the ocean.
Look at the chefs preparing special plates
for everyone, according to what they need.
Look at this cup that can hold the ocean.
Look at those who see the face.
Look through Shams’ eyes
into the Water that is
And I feel like the Queen of Water. I feel like water that transforms from a flowing river to a tranquil lake to a powerful waterfall to a freshwater spring to a meandering creek to a salty sea to raindrops gentle on your face to hard, stinging hail to frost on a mountaintop, and back to a river again.
I drop kindness pebbles in still water everyday, and I watch the effect they have on other people’s lives.
My favorite kindness pebbles are compliments.
Drop a compliment and watch the ripple affect that it has in your life.
The water glittered under the moon’s careful watch, and, in the distance, steeples cut stark black silhouettes into the landscape of the distant city.
Leaving your dreams and living someone’s dreams is like dipping a pole into a pool to catch a weaver bird alive! It doesn’t work that way… Pursue what God sent you for!
Who will you be, my Little Ones? Will you dance for the fires of your youth and run at midnight to water’s edge, diving into summer’s heat? Will you ride a wild mare to any thought or dream or love of your making? Will you seek the artistry of your own infatuations and explore . . .