Water, Fire, Air, Earth

Someone told me an interesting story the other day — that we humans are made out of water, fire, air, and earth.

Water means tenderness, the ability to soften the tension and flow without delay. Fire, on the other hand, means boundaries. It teaches us what is okay and what is not. Air means breath. A pause in the process. A good breathing room you want to run into in times of emergency. And earth, a strong ground. Stability. Consistency. Trust.

When I first heard it, I smiled, thinking it all sounds too familiar. However, it stayed. Even after days and weeks, it stayed inside me. And when another high wave of life rose against me, I remembered the story — the story of compassion, protection, ventilation, and confidence.

That night, I closed my eyes and prayed: I confessed that sometimes I was too much of water. Too soft, too forgiving. As a result, at times I turned into fire. I’d shut the door fast and hard because I was too disappointed with the fact that my softness wasn’t met with another great open heart. Then, fire left me with air. Dry and dull, I became a ghost. I floated around the world like a tree without roots.

Roots. Yes, the roots, I muttered. Not just the pretty leaves in full color. Not just the thin beautiful branches. But also the trunk. The dry, dark chocolate skin. The simplicity. The firm legs reaching below. The anchored spirit. I needed them so much.

“Can you help me?” I asked in my mind. “Can you help me — with my growth, my wisdom, and grace?”

When I opened my eyes, I was back in my reality. Nothing changed: the same night lamp, white sofa, books, tea. Slowly, I made my way to bed. My heart was still uncertain and grave. But my honesty left me with a comforter for the night: hope.

There is hope when you tell the truth. I learned that at last.