Longing for Water: Finding Flow in the Desert

I recently got an email from my Mum, who mentioned my Dad had gotten out in his kayak. That same week, my sister video chatted from Florida. She was having lunch with a colleague who lived on the water. They surprised her, giving her a boat ride to a restaurant overlooking the water.

Was I happy for them? Of course. Was I also a bit jealous? Absolutely.

What is this love for water?

Rain. Lakes. Rivers. The Ocean. Heck, it can be a hot tub or my bathtub. Barefoot. Beach. Bikini. On a boat, a paddleboard, or a dock. As long as the water is near. Surrounding me, embracing me. That’s the dream. That’s home.

Growing up in Central NY, we were surrounded by lakes, rivers, and streams. Dad had a boat and there was nothing like an afternoon on the water to solve the world’s problems. Or at least, make it feel as though we had. With a pool in the background, my needs were met long before I ever learned that I had a need for water.

After moving to the Mid-Hudson Valley, my writing nook was always near the Hudson River or the Rondout Creek. Jim and I spent countless mornings floating in our kayaks, coffee cups in hand, watching the sun rise in quiet reverence. Other times, I’d grab my stand-up paddleboard (SUP) and paddle out alone on Onteora Lake, letting the rhythm of the water carry me back to myself. The rivers and lakes were my sanctuary, my muse, my reset. Water taught me to feel, to flow, to trust the currents, to let go.

Now, I live in the desert.

Las Cruces has its own kind of magic: wide skies, jagged mountains, sunrises that stretch across the horizon like a prayer. I’ve grown to love this place. And yet, I still miss the rain. The river. The lake. The slow, certain way water knows how to hold and heal. It’s a longing I carry with me, like a memory etched into my bones.

Sometimes I wonder: is this ache from this lifetime? A past one? A glimpse of what’s to come? Or maybe it’s a whisper from the soul, calling me back to something essential.

This year, my journey has been from burnout — that searing fire that scorches everything in its path — to something truer. Something quieter. I’ve been learning to pace myself. To honor rhythm. To listen. And always, water rises in my metaphors, my memories, my dreams, offering its ancient wisdom: that healing comes through flow, not force.

The four elements each have their gifts. 

• Earth grounds us in stability and presence. 
• Air moves us forward, carrying inspiration and breath. 
• Fire transforms us, burning away what no longer serves, though sometimes burning too hot, too fast. 
• And water? Water teaches us the deepest lessons: how to feel without drowning, how to adapt without losing ourselves, how to find the path of least resistance that’s also the path of greatest power.

A high school friend once said, “There’s nothing more healing than a run in the rain.” I understood that then. I live it now. Water isn’t just a physical element. It’s emotional, spiritual, cellular. It soothes what fire scorches. It cools what burns too bright. It renews what seems beyond repair.

And it’s no surprise that I’m drawn to herons and egrets. Those elegant beings who embody three elements with such grace. Rooted in earth, lifted by air, sustained by water. They move with patience and precision, balancing stillness and action, teaching me that flow doesn’t always mean constant motion. Sometimes it means knowing when to wait.

Maybe the desert is teaching me this different kind of flow. A slower one. One without wetness but with its own rhythm, the way morning light moves across stone, the way silence pools in vast spaces, the way even the hardest ground eventually yields to the persistence of occasional rain. Maybe I’m learning to find grace not just in grit, but in the spaces between, in longing itself, in the beauty of what’s absent as much as what’s present.

Maybe, for now, I can return to the Rondout in my imagination. In memory. In words, letting language become the river that carries me home to myself.

Maybe, for now, this will be enough.

And maybe, dear reader, there’s an element calling to you, too.

What do you long for? The grounding of earth that offers stability in uncertain times? The breath of fresh air that brings new perspective? The fire that fuels transformation, even when it burns? Or the flow of water and its healing, its intuition, its permission to feel deeply and trust the current to carry you where you need to go?

Whatever your season, may you find your element. And may it meet you exactly where you are, offering its particular medicine for your particular journey.

©2025 Lori Ann King