Hidden Water

Hidden Water

“Did you know there’s an ancient stream flowing under your garden,” an Italian neighbour says. “A few hundred years ago, it was open.” And, immediately, I’m all ears, all in.

I know some will say ‘oh that energy is bad, your luck and wealth are being swept away in the current’. But I don’t agree. As an Irishwoman I know all about what is, in our own language uisce faoi thalamh (yes, that same uisce that gives us in English the word ‘whiskey’). It means there’s water underground, usually in the sense that something about a situation is secret, or as yet unknown, for better or for worse, waiting to be discovered.

I imagine the pilgrims on the old road to Rome, medieval men and women, stopping at ‘our stream’ to cool themselves in the Summer; water their horses, donkeys, refill their flasks as they head up further, deeper into the Chianti hills. Through the centuries, how many birds, deer, foxes and wolves did its waters sustain?

In a world of instant reaction, I’m happy to reflect on this water, its simultaneous absence and presence; on all that is seen and unseen. My son and daughter buried a beloved cat under the old olive tree that took root over it. Does the rushing comfort her as she sleeps?