When I came out of each surgery, the first thing they did the next day was get me up to take a bath. I had barely opened my eyes when I felt my mother’s warm hands, soft yet firm, telling me that water heals. I never doubted it. I would bathe carefully, as if the water were a kind of liquid blessing capable of washing away the pain and leaving me clean from everything that had happened.
Water has always been my answer to everything. When I have no answers, I let water run over me. Something in its fall, in that persistent sound of flowing, reminds me that everything keeps moving, even if I don’t understand it.
Now that I live near the lake, I visit it every day. I need no excuse: sometimes I just sit there, sometimes I look at it in silence like someone listening to a friend who needs no words.
Today I saw it differently. Strangely clear. Strangely restless. As if there were a conversation between the wind and its small waves that I wasn’t invited to understand. I kept watching its strength, the way it moves and breaks without fear, and I felt I should paint it as deep and wise, because that’s how I saw it today: like an old man who knows all the secrets and still doesn’t need to say them.
Maybe water was always that: the reflection of something greater, something that heals not because it erases the wounds, but because it reminds us that everything can also flow and transform.