WELL BLESSING - Poems, Music, Storytelling and the Goddess of the Leam

In appreciation of WATER ......

She lies waiting

She is asleep most of the time. Curled up, she dreamily listens to the sounds of the water as it splashes softly against the rotting boat that is tied to her overgrown little island. Splish, splash. It’s been so long, she has lost track of time. Sometimes, she watches a family of swans that nests on the island. There are three signets, opening their feathers wide with expectation to the life that lies ahead of them. She watches them and sighs. The miracle of youth, she murmurs to herself as she contemplates her own invisibility, lifelessness, transience. It has been so long that algae are growing from her fingers. Memories, flashbacks, come back to her from time to time, some painful, some nostalgic, some joyful like mirages from a distant land. Often, she dreams of a soft, cosy, warm place, and the type of transparent, enveloping warmth that can only be found in the hearts of human beings. She has not felt it for a long time.

When she was a young maiden, a long, long time ago, things were different. There were lush springs, wells, and waters all around her, springing from her mouth, her breasts, from between her thighs. She was cherished and loved. People came and celebrated her, thanked her with flowers and gifts, they sang and danced and visited her often. They held her in their hearts, they celebrated the sacred waters that were so much part of their lives. The people cherished her, and in turn, she cherished the people. This continued for a very long time.

In time, the maiden grew into a mother. She wanted to help the people, to help them grow, because she saw their suffering. She loved them, and so she became always more giving, leading the people to more of her sacred spring waters, making them richer and more nourishing. The people cured many ailments from her waters, and they began to prosper. They discovered many healing wells, built big bath houses around them, developed their village into a big town, and yet still honoured her with statues, monuments and mosaics.

But something shifted. Somehow, ever so slightly, things changed. There were less flowers, less singing, less dancing. Less joy. At first, she put it down to lack of attentiveness. The people were so busy, as many visitors came to their town to experience the miraculous waters – even the Queen of England visited. Surely it was only a matter of time until they remembered again, she told herself. And she continued giving. But people paid her less and less attention. Bath house after bath house closed down, well after well disappeared, as the people decided they had more important ventures to pursue.

Without their love, she slowly turned into a crone. Her waters dried up. Still she gave, she flowed, whenever she could, ignoring the sadness and the loneliness that choked her from time to time. Eventually, when she could take it no more, she retreated to the river. She hid. And still she could not stop giving. She sank into a deep sleep.

Yet, almost unbeknown to her, from time to time, somebody remembered her. A small flower, a thought, a friendly word. It was mostly the old people who recalled her, who kept the wells, and their patroness, in their hearts. She experienced this as a gentle warm wave inside her body, a tingling soft sensation like that of a summer breeze, and the waters, of which there was only a trickle left, suddenly flowed more freely for a while.

Then one summer day, as she lay in the deep grass on her island, she heard drumming from afar. Just like in old times, she thought sleepily, maybe I am dreaming again. She scolded herself for being so sentimental, and drifted off again. But the drumming became louder and louder, and through the reeds she could make out dancers, dressed in white and orange. She spotted a big man reading from a book near a fountain, and he was holding a glass of water in his hand. A little closer to her island, she heard a man tell a story to a crowd of curious people. He looked angry, and she thought she heard the word ‘Goddess’ and ‘forgotten’, but surely this could not be. Suddenly, the group of people started singing and dancing in a circle. Most peculiar. They danced onto the bridge, waved flowers and started calling. They started calling… her name. ‘Goddess!’, they called, ‘where are you? Come back!’ She reared her head slowly. No, she decided, it could not be. It had been too long. But they were calling her, from the bridge.

The little elf and boatsman who kept her company sometimes tugged excitedly at her sleeve. ‘Goddess’, he pleaded, ‘there are people who want to see you!’ Only half-dressed, for he had been sleeping too, he jumped into the boat next to her, and rowed her, as fast as he could, towards the bridge. The voices of the people became louder and more consistent ‘Goddess! We remember you!’, they called. ‘What, me? They remember me? Who are they?’, she asked the elf incredulously, who rowed quicker and quicker towards the bridge. Could this be? Many people were leaning over the bridge towards her, with expressions of anticipation and wonder and joy at seeing her. They sang songs, they threw flower petals at her, they welcomed her back amidst much noise and happiness. From despondence and disbelief, her expression changed to deep emotion and joy. She slowly raised her arm, her arm that had become stiff and creaky from the long years on the river. She was no longer alone. She was no longer forgotten. They had remembered her.