I would love to live in Tolkien’s Middle-earth, where Ulmo is the angel of the water, and the water holds the secrets of the earth, and of the hearts of children and women and men.
I would love to be among the Elves, though with woodland or seaside ones I am uncertain. Yet even in Galadriel’s realm, Lothlorien, there is water that protects elves, that has power against intruders like orcs.
In Rivendell, where Elrond dwells, a river keeps out dark, scary riders, and should they threaten to ford it, to trespass the last homely house, Gandalf would wash them away, with currents fashioned into the likeness of steeds.
In Isengard near Orthanc there is a dam, which Ents, shepherds of trees, could wreck to release water, to flush out the filthy tunnels of a black-hearted Saruman.
I would have no qualms about living in Lewis’ Narnia, where water is an ally as at the Fords of Beruna, if not a conveyor to adventures as in the voyage of the Dawn Treader, or an elixir as from the eye of Aslan the lion, to give life anew to Caspian.
Even in Rowling’s London, water is a hallowed weapon, wielded by Dumbledore in a great duel against Voldemort’s raging pyromania.
But I was not born in the lands of the Silmarillion, and that is a mercy: I am in reality. I have no access to that nowhere in Narnia, where each pool is a portal, a gate to a brand new world.
Still, I was born in Cebu’s narrow mainland, where trees and rare birds are making their last stand, in a shred of forest known as Nug-as. And in Cebu’s metropolis pollution can reign like the fumes of Mount Doom, and the streets turn into canals, impassable when it rains.
When I was little, we lived in Tisa at the feet of hillocks, on low-lying ground. Once, the rain came, followed by a flood that wound its way into our house. This was before the era of smartphones and computers, when our pictures were in albums stacked beneath our board. Our foes were not viruses but soiled floodwaters that ruined years of our memories stored on photo paper.
Another time rain came and with it the flood, and I do not recall much but wading, bearing our dog, big for a little boy, to the home of our neighbor, about six doors up, on higher ground.
Dozens of moons have come and gone, and our planet has many times spun around the sun. But nothing lasting to stem the onslaught of flooding has been done.
Once, while I was commuting to my seaside office, the rain caught me at the rising of the tide. Once again I had to go and wade through the flood, this time to reach my desk. Fortunately there were dry clothes to change into at work.
We are once more amid the season of moist days and monsoons, of strong winds and typhoons, and from far away through my smart phone, I can see pictures of Cebu’s floods. Our house, now in Talisay, holds up well against rain and deluge. But we know the floods prowl about our streets: we need only look outside our windows whenever the downpour begins.
In my forties as I am, I am also each age I was. So the little boy in me still holds out some hope for some day when I might write about urban creeks and rivers for the lifestyle section of a paper, as travel destinations.
But when, oh when, will that day come?
When will we all befriend the water?