If you have read novels set in England maybe you have read the lovely word Water-Meadow. “Meadow” is one of my favorite words, and when I first read about water-meadows I saw a wonderful image in my mind’s-eye. A green meadow, sparkling with rivulets of water that glittered in sunlight.
A few weeks ago, feeling myself once again about to slide over the edge into extravagant and overwhelming weeping in grief, but being in a very public place, as I started my slide I thought of the word “flood,” a flooding of tears. Then somehow appeared in my mind an image of that powerful flood gushing into a water-meadow, its vicious pain dissipating into multiple, beautiful, lively streams that flowed into the meadow, giving life to the plants therein. I held that image in my mind, saying “water-meadow, water-meadow” quietly, and lo! I was able to stop the flood of weeping before it overcame me.
Since that first time I have sent tears into the water-meadow many times, and each time it has absorbed them, leaving me able to go about whatever I thought I was going to do next.
Water-meadow. Water-meadow. Water-meadow.