Legends of Water

One day I asked water to remind me of my roots…

I grew up in an historic neighborhood of Lviv (City of Lions), in a century-old house built by my great grandparents. My childhood memories revolve around a mature garden planted by my grandfather and in the garden was a family well. The well held a big spell on me since I could see my reflection. I liked to glance at the mysterious eye staring back at me from the depth of darkness and listen to the sounds of a chain clanging and a wooden wheel turning that were announcing water being carried to the surface by a large, time-worn bucket. When I was old enough to turn the wheel, each time I managed to draw a bucket of water without a spill, I felt empowered by the crystal clearness of the force that gives life to humans and plants.

And then there were the stories. At the end of the day, my grandfather would sit down to rest with his shovel, near the well, sipping water from a cup that was always hanging there, enjoying the results of his work accomplished through the day. I loved to be around him in those moments, thirsty for more stories to be told. So, he would tell me the history of our City of Lions, how in ancient times there was a river called Poltva that ran through the city’s streets. People decided to cover it with earth and cobblestones, so they would use the surface as streets for cars and even build an Opera house on top of the river, forcing the river underground.

My grandfather felt sorry for the imprisoned river and used to say that we should always keep our well, so the river, which fed our well, can see the sky. He would often talk about his mother, Maria, and how difficult it was for her to raise seven children when her husband was drafted to war. He was a craftsman, one of the builders of a stone church that was standing on a hill at the end of our property. When he came wounded from the faraway Italian Alps, he would send his children to collect water from a little stream near the church, believing it would forgive and heal him.

Apparently, when the church was being built, he and his men found an ancient temple on the site that was dedicated to water. They destroyed the temple, believing that artifacts of pagan culture were not appropriate on the site of a church. His wounds never healed, he was always thirsty, and he died with water in his lungs.

Then my grandfather would talk about his own war experience, how he was captured and spent years in a German camp, and what a blessing to finally come home and drink water from the well, water that tasted like heaven.

My grandfather would get upset at how careless the people were with water and what a shame it was to pollute rivers. He would dream of the City of Lions becoming a beautiful garden on the bank of a river that carries sweet water because people let it be free and clean.