Last night, I watched an ice cube melt.

It clinked against the glass—defined, bulbous, square, with firm edges.

Then slowly softening. Dissolving and disappearing into what it had always been.

That’s how I see spirit.

It takes form.

Becomes a body. Tree. River. Human.

Held for a spell, in the shape of something solid. Yet always, it is water, never forgetting how to return to itself.

I think of myself as spirit in solid state. Not separate, but momentarily distinct. An ice cube among many in the same glass, appearing different, but all from the same source.

And when my time is done, I will melt. Back to water. Back to the whole. Not ending, only returning.

Right now, the world feels loud and unstable. Grief moves through me like a storm. So much turbulence. So much pain. The unknown. Endless uncertainty.

And still… there is water.

The building block. Always generous. Releasing itself into the ether to form clouds and spilling over the land to nourish life.
​

Our tears are evidence. Salted water from a deeper ocean. Speaking the language of spirit.

Grief.
Joy.
Longing.
Surrender.

Tears rise not as weakness, but as wisdom. Reminders that our bodies are from the earth, and our essence is of the sea.

We know the recipe for water. But making it is dangerous. Because while water is life-giving, it is also fierce.

Hail. Hurricanes. Tsunamis.

It nurtures and destroys. Clearing what we cling to.

Water doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait to be understood.

It flows. Reshapes. Rises.

Disappearing to return again. Changed, but not lost.

Maybe that’s the invitation.

To stop bracing against the tide. To allow ourselves to be altered. Softened. Washed. To grieve what is gone, and trust the return.

Like water, we are not meant to hold form. But we are built to hold. And to remember. Who we are, and from whence we came.

In stillness, we are sacred.
Amid the flood, we are held.

And always, we return.

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