Just Add Water
From outside, his voice slips through the open door and hums in my ear. Contentment has a sound. When you are a mother, the voice of your child playing punctuates the air with peace. When he is silent, you worry.
Water gurgles over rocks and spatters on dirt. My youngest grips a green writhing hose between earnest hands and creates a prehistoric wetland for his dinosaurs.
The excited whimpering of our dog lets me know that she is at her favorite task–nipping at running, splashing water. A vibrating Tasmanian Devil lurks beneath her timid shy exterior. Like Clark Kent, she requires something to change from her normal mild mannered self. Touch requires dripping, spilling, splashing, tumbling water. When she sees it, she comes alive–scampering from place to place, ears on alert, tongue lolling, and feet nimbly climbing air.
She isn’t the only one freed by the racing wetness. My three sons, each in their turn, shed somber selves and become laughing joking Joyboys when handed a hose or a pail full of Nature’s greatest medicine.
Psychiatrists should move their offices outside. Exposing their patients to a hose of running water and a warm day would cure half what ails in this world.