Watered Oil

It speaks in dialects—
calm.
quiet.
angry.
thrashing.

It has known me longer than memory,
longer than name.
I was raised on its breath,
drawn by something older than wind.

Landlocked—
a concept I’ve never tasted.

There’s freedom in the water,
but freedom comes through forgetting.
It asks for nothing,
and gives you back yourself.

What lies beyond the blue veil?
How far can you drift
before you are no longer drifting—
but being carried?

I don’t come to swim.
I come to remember.
I come to listen.

This is where I met the One who calls me beloved—
not in thunder,
but in hush.
Still waters[1],
where heaven doesn’t shout,
but breathes.

The shore hummed with knowing.
The tide whispered in,
like breath through a torn veil.
I didn’t speak—
my thoughts sank like stones.
But my body,
for once,
was still.

The color—
emerald.
I always said I loved blue,
but this green—
this living green—
it carries resurrection.
It reminds me of You.

Storms still come,
but I don’t hide.
Even the fury cradles.
Even the waves know how to kneel.
The tide returns to peace—
just as all things do
in the hands of the One who holds time.

I smiled.
No sunset needed.
No sky of gold.
The tide was enough—
because You were still there.

The water shifts,
and still, it remains.
The only constant
in a world made of vanishing.

And I—
I’ve changed,
but the pull remains.
The echo of Eden in salt and stillness.

This is how I pray:
bare feet on holy ground,
palms open like petals.
Breathing in
what You once walked upon.

The noise dissolves.
The fear drifts out with the tide.
They follow me when I leave—
but so does the promise.

I know the way back.
The tide remembers me.
And so do You.

I sit by the water—
a cure written in no book,
a balm for wounds unnamed.

I’ve found You here—
where trees lean in like angels listening,
where wind threads through leaves
like a voice not made of sound,
where chaos and stillness
trade hands
like lovers at twilight.

Cool depths.
Crashing warmth.
The breath before the breaking.

Blue and green—
the colors of eyes that see everything,
of wounds healed without scar,
of home not built with hands.

Water—
the first language.
The last refuge.
The whisper of baptism.
The touch of eternity.

The place where all thirst ends[3],
and all ache becomes worship.

Scripture References
[1] Psalm 23:2-3 — "He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul."
[2] Isaiah 43:2 — "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you."
[3] John 4:14 — "But whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst."