“You have to really be courageous about your instincts and your ideas. Otherwise, you’ll just knuckle under and things that might have been memorable will be lost.”~ Francis Ford Coppola (as seen on #nitch)
Her understudy, the part of her spirit that championed amidst insanity, the undertow of her consciousness was certain there was an art to being water. Just as we were made from lively sacs of cellular water, we were right to be fierce about plentiful access to clear water for every being. The respect for sharing resources—the study of water—felt like a spiritual consciousness far too large to ever truly understand, but one could begin within and without simultaneously, by paying attention.
Fishing on “Private Property” in a suburban neighborhood
Water was like sunshine mixed with energy; this was no cliché. The exquisite pleasure of water transcended grace. Everywhere she celebrated its form: ice frozen in trees, seascapes, rivers at sunrise and bays at sunset, the love of water lured us to it.
Frozen landscape of galloping sheep in Lancashire, England, December 2010.
The womb carrying new life, the floating sea, the shower, the waterfall, the river, the bath ≈ there was no way to properly capture what water meant to us, to her. This was a charge to heed. She would contemplate this creationary solvent and meanwhile she would be useful, as doula, as mother, as volunteer citizen, as poet, Tulin would be as gentle as she could and still make waves.
The gentle Atlantic Ocean at low tide, Sandbridge Beach, Virginia
