Of Water and Wisdom

There is a subtle and horrible fear creeping over this town. So many seem to have fallen in such a short time—an athlete, then a band kid, then a beloved teacher with two small children of his own, then an older colleague--that whispers now poke at the unthinkable: maybe it’s in the water. And what exactly do we do? If the town really is fed by cancer causing wells, what do we do?

I try not to think about it often. I try not to think about how many glasses of it my mother used to consume daily. I try not to think about how often she lectured me on how I should drink more of it, or how lucky I may be that I refused because my finicky tongue didn’t like the flavor. It’s strange how something like water can suddenly become suspect. A life giving fluid so elemental and so essential we trust it unquestioningly. Then, suddenly, we don’t even cook with it anymore.

I look into the glass of tap water and watch the beautiful crystalline flow of the cold libation I am about to pour for my gods and wonder, for the briefest moment, if I pour out poison onto my shrine. There is no way to tell just by looking.

And  I don’t tell this story to be depressing or to rail against the unfairness of it. I tell the story because it is a good metaphor for what I am struggling with. The way I feel about drinking my town’s water is the way I feel about drinking wisdom. But let me explain…

Facts are opaque things. They can be judged and tested and held to the candle of reason for a stern examination that will reveal every fault and crack and fissure. But wisdom is a frustratingly clear and fluid creature and often the only way to learn much about it is to consume it. It is hardly as reliable as knowledge. The truth of it is usually relative, for one thing, and it has its origins in the murky depths of the social conscious of the era that gave birth to it. Even the oldest wisdom (inspired by gods or otherwise obtained) is a uniquely human artifact. Passed from one generation to the next like an heirloom until no one quite remembers where the family got it from. That leaves a lot of room poisons to be unwittingly spooned to babes who will grow up thinking that is the way life is supposed to taste. Not all “wisdom” is good for us.

But in a world like ours, where we drown in facts and information, where knowledge flows in such abundance that we lose ourselves on the tide—wisdom is more essential than ever. We are parched for meaning to the point that many modern theories of psychology allow for “existential depression” to be a thing. Knowledge is a tool for understanding the practical but not an answer for the great riddle that keeps us all up at night.

There are two strong atheists in my family who spend considerable time extolling the virtues of living a life based on facts—a life that constantly scrutinizes and inspects for quality any notion that comes near. And there are moments when I wonder if they’re right, just like there are moments when I wonder if it’s wise to use my sink. I struggle daily with the question: should I drink of it or buy it bottled just to be safe?

For the moment at least, I lock my eyes with the statues of my gods and I sip the last bit of the water myself just to make my position on the matter clear. I said I’d follow you into hell if need be. I meant it.