Isn’t this the turtle of the world, carrying a pearl?

Isn’t this a drop of rain speaking a drop of rain?

Here’s a turtle without a pearl.

Sometimes drops flock.

Saskatoons are particular good hosts for such drops.

And what is a drop? Doesn’t it form suddenly, with a closed “d”, with the tongue blocking the teeth, then releasing?

Then then the released tongue slides into an open, rounded mouth, that, well, closes with a plopped “p”. Every time we say “drop”, we are water.

Or earth.

Don’t let a dictionary tell you that a word has a “meaning”, an intent. It has a presence. It’s quite different from falling and landing or being caught, like the pebble below.

A drop is a hole, a cylindrical mouth with a closed ‘l’ at its bottom, and open to the sky at the other end, with breath, a life force, pouring out of it.

We name the circle it makes whole, far more rounded than the hole. It is, as I showed you already, what comes from it, a kind of memory speaking in the present, and holding.

We can see its past, making new worlds, see its present, and, looking into the water, see its future, all at once. It is whole.

This is called minding. The water is your mind. You’re not looking into it to see your reflection. You are simply aligning your mind to it, and when you walk away it is that alignment that you are carrying.

Estranged from our minds by language arranged into linear sequences, we say “things take time,” forgetting that things, the gathering of energy, aren’t the flow. They are gatherings. They fill, in the way water is not a substance but a gathering. All this can be abstracted, of course, but to do so you have to step away from the earth and the water, from those gaps in grounding that gather wet (an action) and speak it as water (the materialized form of this gathering). As for wet, well…

… well, well, well, well, it’s a well, too.