As a child I went to a house on the water with my parents and another family for a week. This was the trip I learned about the diversity of pond water.

There was a floating dock us kids would swim to. Running barefoot down a grassy slide, our feet covered in mud, we’d enter the water, its murkiness softening our skin.

Once the water turned deep it became cold in contrast to the warm bath water just behind it. The plants at the bottom of the pond would tickle us with their feathers, and if you dipped down enough you’d feel the terrifying earth that no one could see, an earth that held not just plants, but secrets.

We don’t talk about that enough. What lives in the depths of every body of water, providing the foundation of the form without ever taking credit for the beautiful waves above. Reminds me of the depths we carry in our souls.

Who ever wants to kick up their pond dirt? Watch as it surfaces creating a cloud of dust beneath the dancing blue waters. How ugly that water looks when you’ve only come to see the waves. How frightening it is to think of what may have been unearthed in the process.

I’ve kicked up my pond dirt, over and over and over again. My soul may look like dancing blue waters glistening under the sun to some, but just beneath the surface is the grimy soil that holds all my roots, what feeds me.

There is no pond, lake, or ocean, without a foundation. No soul without all of its parts. No human without all their sides. My surface may glow under the warm rays above me, but there is a lot to unearth underneath.