A couple of years ago trolling television channels I landed on a New Age film that was just kooky enough to hold my attention. So I paused, watched a bit, scoffed at some specious reading of physics and questioned the validity of the film’s so-called research.
But I found myself pondering a Japanese study where bottled water was placed in a fake art exhibit with each bottle labeled differently. One, for example, said “poison.” Another “invigorating.” Yet another “healthy.” After a time the water was analyzed. While each container had originally been filled from the same purified source and each was held in the same sealed environment, the water had supposedly changed. The “poison” water was indeed foul, while the “healthy” water remained pure.
As I said, I can’t vouch for the validity of the study — or even if it had happened at all. But when the narrator said, “Water becomes what we believe it to be, and the human body is anywhere from 55 to 78 percent water,” it stuck with me. True or not, the statement underscored what I have long maintained: We are what we believe we are — and much of that belief is shaped by those closest to us.
She sees me as my best self, so I tend toward my best self in her presence, and all she contains, as far as I am concerned, is holy water: the stuff of saints. My mind is settled about this.
I might be lamely poetic and say I long to join her in a stream, a river, a lake, an ocean, but the tired symbol wouldn’t contain my affection. I am more inclined to simply be in her presence, a slowly evaporating puddle glad for a few moments existence cupped in her hands.
