The Waters Remember
I came back to the first water that knew my name. Before there were words, there was this river—quiet, watching, carrying every story that thought it had been forgotten.
The Waters Remember is the beginning place—the first telling of how memory moves. At the center stands the Mother of the river, rooted where water touches light. She is not only a woman and not only a tree; she is remembrance made visible. Every lily in her crown opens like a listening ear, holding the rains that fell before our names were spoken. In her stillness, the water remembers everything the world tries to bury.
These dreams are not just about rivers and lakes; they are about the kind of memory that flows, refuses to harden, and keeps circling back until we are ready to hear it. Here, every current is a language, and every silence holds an ancestor’s breath. To stand beside these waters is to feel that nothing true has ever fully disappeared— it has only been waiting beneath the surface.
Within this series, three visions move like one body of water: the Mother and child in Songs of Water, where blue stone softens into tenderness and every wave carries the names of those who crossed; the sacred patience of flow in The River Remembers, where forgiveness becomes a bridge instead of a cage; and the reclamation of name and truth in The Water God’s Trick, where stolen names find their way back home. Together they form a hymn of return—a baptism not into forgetting, but into remembering who we have always been.
When you stand beside these waters, breathe slowly. The memory you feel is not imagined—it is the echo of what already knows your name.
Songs of Water
I saw a mother carved from blue stone holding a child of light. Around us, the river rose and fell like a single lung, remembering everyone who ever crossed.
The River Remembers
Golden water cut through blue stone. I sat by the bank and felt it speak—not in words, but in a quiet knowing that loosened what I had buried inside me.
The Water God’s Trick
Two waters met: one keeping the true name, one carrying a borrowed one. I stood between them and learned why some rituals unname us softly—and how the river gives our names back.