My shower is my best friend. I’m in there at least twice a day, and it’s not just to be clean. Water is salvation for me. I get under the gently streaming water to think, to dream and to gather my thoughts to write.
Picture me in front of my computer, unable to begin a proper sentence. It happens to all writers, sometimes. When nothing draws me into the story, I run toward the shower, stripping off clothing and turn on the faucets. By the time the water has reached the proper temp, I’m back in the work in progress, with sentences streaming down my back in rivulets.
I hop out of the tub and wrap a big towel around me, run back to the computer and with damp fingers get started on the sentences that were stopped between my soul and my brain. Perhaps they are not connected there all the time.
But water is my soul, my friend, my living compass. Of course my body needs it to live, but my talent needs it to thrive.
My dreams are filled with jaunts to the ocean and the relaxation of bobbing on waves until I’ve lost my footing.
The only time that water is not my friend is when I try to bathe my dog. She doesn’t write or need water to fill her soul, only her body. She also needs water and soap to keep her smelling pleasant. It’s water that allows her to sleep on my bed. She doesn’t know that water entitles her to the comfort of the pack.
Water—it keeps my lawn green; it washes every surface in my house. It keeps me whole.