In Search of Flowing Streams ...
I collect words - strange, but true. I have a page on pinterest specifically for words that I like the sound of; words that we don't use any more but say exactly what we are trying express. Querencia is one such word.
n. A place from which one's strength is drawn, where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self.
That place for me is beside water; especially shallow moving water; streams, rivers, brooks and creeks. Delighting in the sound of water tinkling over stones, glimmering and sparkling in the sunlight - watching small fish darting amongst the flowing weed.
This morning I went in search of a flowing stream down in the hollows behind my home. Since my last visit in February here everything has become so overgrown, with knee-high buttercups and mares tails, that the water wasn't visible; tantalisingly I could hear the trickle as it meandered through the long grasses and overhanging trees.
I had to settle for the pond with its dark shadows, murky depths and brackish weed-filled water; still and silent; moorhens hiding in the undergrowth afraid of humans - used only to cows, who come to drink from the water's edge.
My quest failed; the longing for moving water remains - to sit on the banks of a stream and look into the depths; watch the infinite patterns as the water makes its way downstream; clear and pure, tumbling over rocks and stones - tempting me to dip in my toes and feel the icy chill - alas, it will have to wait for another time, another place.
Elainethank you to all who commented on my last post on Friday - I had to delete it as something had gone horribly wrong and it wasn't working properly.