As a writer, (ok, it’s a blog; not a novel or a screenplay, but still) sometimes I face a little writer’s block. But this topic flowed effortlessly because I am surrounded by it. It flows from every corner of the property. It sputters up through the ground. It flows off the hillsides, under the bridges, and spills over the dams. It freezes, it melts, and it makes magical snowflakes. It blows and it drifts, and it seeps through cracks in the wine cellar walls. It’s the water. And in the winter, the water wears many a mask that captivates me with its fickleness.
I have always loved the water. I love deep water swimming, crashing waves, and a long draw from a frosty glass. I love rainstorms, deep, wide, slow rivers, and I love bubble baths. I love mountain streams, shimmering lakes, and splashy puddles, yet am in awe of the power of water when it’s naughty and dangerous.
But what I love most is the sound of water. At The Castle, when it rains, and snows and melts and snows again, the water makes its way into every corner of life. It drips, trickles, and bubbles. It babbles and splashes and spurts. And when it’s really misbehaving . . . it roars. It breaches the dams and crashes over bridges and drowns out every peep and every thought. It’s awe-inspiring.
It seems unimaginable to me, given my water-logged life, that there is a global water shortage. Only 2.5 % of all the water on the planet is drinkable freshwater. And there are days that I think that all that water is here in my backyard . . . but I know it’s really only a drop in the bucket.