Jed Wolf

As a landscaper, I’m drawn to water’s transformative power. In childhood, my fascination began with storm drains where rain mixed with sewage and oil, creating toxic urban springs. I dreamed of purifying these flows, channeling them through gravel beds and filtering bogs until they became crystalline pools cascading down woodland slopes.

Last night, I found myself back in one of these dream-built waterparks. A PVC pipe had appeared, diverting my carefully crafted stream into a roadside ditch. Following its path, I discovered bulldozers had erased my creation for another strip of asphalt. Even awake now, the loss feels raw, echoing larger fears of what we stand to lose.

Sleep shifted the scene. I walked a mountain trail with a friend, both of us part of that invisible tribe that learns early to see beyond society’s boundaries. We were searching for a hidden swimming hole I’d once tended, hoping it had survived the march of progress. As the path narrowed and climbed, pack mules appeared beside us.

The valley dropped away beneath our feet, a great river glinting far below. Neither of us trusted the mules, reading in their downcast eyes years of bitter servitude. As if confirming our fears, one suddenly lunged from the cliff path. Its scream as it fell haunts me still – part terror, part liberation. The river waited below, its waters thick with crocodiles.

We watched helplessly as the mule fought the current toward the far shore. On the Mexican bank, figures appeared with baseball bats. From our side came a rifle crack, the bullet finding flesh but not mercy. I woke before seeing which form of violence claimed the creature.

Between repairing leaks in my real-world pond liner today, I keep returning to that dream-mule’s desperate swim. Like the contaminated springs of my childhood fantasies, it demands transformation. But in these polarized times, when even the God beneath our feet feels uncertain, and change requires more than just filtering systems and good intentions water still calls. Every drop holds the possibility of both poison and purification. Tonight, I’ll read another chapter of Snyder’s “On Freedom,” hoping to understand how we might bridge these turbulent currents dividing us. For now, I tend my garden pond and practice small kindnesses, knowing that even the smallest streams can eventually reshape the world.