The Fine Art of Appreciating Water

(It’s 12:19 p.m. on Sunday. I’m typing this on my phone as Greg drives us the three hours home from our weekend away. I apologize for the roughness of a first draft, but I have to get this down.)

I’ve thought more about water over the past four days than I ever have in my forty-three years. No; not “thought.” Mulled over. Obsessed about. Meditated on. Why? Because on Thursday, January 9, over 7500 gallons of 4-methylcyclohexane methanol flowed into the Elk River just a mile or so upriver from the West Virginia Water Company in Charleston, West Virginia. My hometown. Though I’ve lived two hours north in Buckhannon for years, my family is there–my mom, brothers, sister, aunt, uncle and their families, not to mention many friends. My heart would go out to people affected anywhere, but this is personal. This is blood. And water.
On Thursday evening, Facebook blew up with news reports and testimonials. The media reported that there was a licorice-like odor to the leak; a friend of mine said it was closer to cherry cough syrup. Tasted funny. She drank the water before knowing about the leak, since there was a gap of nine or ten hours before the “do not use” mandate became public. When I say “do not use,” I mean for anything except for flushing toilets or putting out fires. It could irritate skin, cause sickness…in fact, there’s not a lot of safety information available about the chemical.
I texted with my family that night. I Tweeted about people who were offering access to clean water–nine counties affected, roughly 300,000 people. I Tweeted my outrage that though our governor declared a State of Emergency, shutting down schools, restaurants and the like, state employees in the affected counties were still required to work the next day.
My husband, Greg, and I had reservations in the southern part of the state for the weekend. It was our Christmas present to each other, and we decided to go instead of canceling. Why would we cancel? Because it was at The Greenbrier, known as “America’s Resort.” A five-star luxury compound and casino. Admittedly, the conflict took place mostly in my head. When we dropped off the kids, Greg’s mom asked, “Are you excited about your weekend?”
“A little. I feel guilty with everything going on in Charleston.”
“Stop. You had this planned before this crazy thing happened. You deserve a weekend.”
We got back on I-79, headed south. The back of our vehicle held 34 cases of 36 bottles of water for my family. I’d posted a picture of the water, and as we drove, friends commented on Facebook. “You’re a beautiful person inside and out.” “Bless your heart.” “You’re good people.” I was disconcerted; I didn’t post the photo for pats on the back. I posted it to document what we were having to do. I posted it for people not directly affected to see that this was serious shit.

Our first stop was to our niece’s on-again, off-again boyfriend’s apartment. He’s a single dad who has to walk off the hill and down an overpass bridge to get to his job at Subway. He lives in City Park, one of the most crime-ridden housing complexes in Charleston. You have to show your driver’s license at a security post to even get inside.
Alex met us outside his building and Greg loaded two heavy cases into his arms. We left quickly, because we had three more delivery stops. Even before we got to the bottom of the overpass, my phone alerted me of a text from Alex. “Thanks again. I really appreciate it.”
Our next stop was Lee Street. To get there, we passed the water treatment plant on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Do you smell it?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Rachel was right. More like NyQuil.” My senses adjusted to the faint, sickly-sweet smell.
“Either my eyes are irritated or I’m imagining it.” The sting was so slight that I wasn’t sure it it was real.
“You’re not imagining it.”
We made our deliveries to Lee Street, Maxwell Street, and South Park, unloading water and hugs. We left two cases of water for our niece’s best friend’s family, as well.
By the time we pulled up to the security booth at The Greenbrier, it was 11:50 p.m.
“They didn’t offer me a glass of wine.” That’s a tradition when you check in.
“You’ll be okay without it.” Greg said as we made our way to the elevator.
I settled for a glass of ice water while I got ready for bed.

The next morning, I bathed, shaved, brushed my teeth and thought about the people that wouldn’t be able to bathe that day. I walked to my two spa treatments: Waterworks and a hot stone massage. “Quit it! You scheduled these before the water issue!” My conscious argued with itself.
After changing into my robe and slippers, I waited in the relaxation room with its array of snacks and drinks, including two huge containers of ice water. I picked up a book that I couldn’t avoid: Masaru Emoto’s _The Healing Power of Water_. “…artesian springs have enormous healing power.” Emoto studies water by capturing photos of water crystals from various places. “Water from a spring formed breathtakingly beautiful regular hexagons, while water from the lower course of a river or from a dam hardly achieved a complete crystal. The most shocking results came from chloride-ridden drinking water…” Don’t cry, I told myself, wondering what the crystals from the Elk River would look like this morning.

“Are you ready, Shauna?” the auburn-hair attendant asked. She escorted me into my soaking room–candle-light, soft music, and a tub filled with sulphur water from the spring, which is what the area is best known for. The attendant was required to make sure I entered the tub without slipping. She took the robe from my body and said, “There are ten or eleven minerals in the water, so you’ll be quite buoyant. There’s a pillow to place your feet under to hold you down. I’ll check in with you later.” There was a cup of ice water and an ice pack resting on the tub’s ledge. Water, water everywhere…
She was right. My breasts, stomach, pelvis stuck out of the water. I hooked one foot under the pillow, allowing the other leg to float. I wanted to let go and float and be carried on the water, but there was nowhere to go. I was contained.
I shut my eyes and tried to quiet my thoughts. The mild sulfuric aroma entered my awareness. I brought a cupped handful to my nose and was seven years old, on my great-Uncle Jimmy’s farm in Roane County. Jimmy, my Ma-Maw’s brother, was a retired coal miner. He and his wife, Katherine, loved having family come stay. Their tubs and sinks were stained with minerals from the well water, and when I bathed there, I thought it was not as good as our water in Charleston. Yet here I was, in a fancy hotel, paying half a day’s wages to soak in mineral-rich, metallic-and-egg-smelling water which was much better than the water in Charleston right now.
The attendant came to take me to the next part of the treatment. I stood in a shower with sixteen sprays directed at my body while the attendant shot two jets of water–fifteen pounds of pressure each–up and down my back, butt and legs, then my right side, then the fronts of my legs, then my left side, then on my shoulders and back before shutting off the water. She dried my back while I dried my front, then held my robe open. I walked back to the relaxation room and picked up the book again and crunched on pieces of ice.

“There’s an old Chinese phrase that’s often found in ancient texts: ‘water of long life.’ This kind of water was collected, with immense effort, from the high mountain region and was only available to the upper classes. It was either rainwater or ‘dew-water’ from melted snow. It was pure, having been cleansed naturally through evaporation or rainfall. Unfortunately, this process can no longer take place–today there are many particles in the atmosphere that pollute rainwater.” (Petra Bracht, M.D. in _The Healing Power of Water_)

I looked up from the book and out the window where rain fell in a steady rhythm. I prayed that the rain was reaching Charleston and that it could help diffuse the harm, despite what I was reading.

The next attendant called my name and we walked to the massage room. First, I had to stop and pee, getting rid of my liquid waste. Afterwards, he left so I could disrobe and lie face down on the heated table.
“Where are you from?” he asked when he entered the room.
Ugh. A talker. I didn’t prefer conversation during massage; I liked focusing on my body, the therapist’s touch, my thoughts.
“Buckhannon, but we took water to my family in Charleston before we came last night.”
“I’m from Charleston, too. My parents are dead, but my sons still live there. I have a practice there, but work here most weekends.”
So he needed to talk about the water issue, too. We talked for fifteen minutes or so as he slicked my back with oil and placed heated stones on my upper thighs and lower back. Eventually, the conversation slowed and I could enter into myself.
“Let me know if the heat becomes uncomfortable.” It was too much, but I wouldn’t tell him because I needed that mix of comfort and discomfort. Make my outsides match my insides.
After the massage, the therapist brought me another glass of ice water.
“It was nice to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your stay. Blessings to your family and mine.” he said.
“Prayers and good vibes. Thanks.”
I decided to visit the steam room and sauna before leaving. I disrobed and entered the steam room. The hot vaporous water stung my nose, but I spread my towel anyway. My pores prickled on my cheeks and arms. After less than a minute, the steam machine hissed loudly, expelling an even hotter cloud. I pictured the steam that shoots into the sky from the chemical plants in Charleston. I panicked, jumped up and bolted from the room.

Later that evening, after dinner, Greg signed up for his poker tournament and I sat at a Three-Card Poker table. The person to my left was from Charleston; like us, though, he already had reservations for the weekend. The couple to my right was from Charleston; they came to the resort Friday night to escape the water issue. They were flying to Florida the next morning. Their daughter invited them down to visit. And shower.

“We’re aquatic beings, and I can’t stress enough the importance of becoming aware of it. The consequence should be that we treat the gift of the universe respectfully and attentively and honor its wisdom.” (Emoto)

It’s now Sunday. I drank deeply from a glass of water this morning and remembered to give thanks. I showered and gave thanks. I wonder how long before my family and the other residents of the nine counties affected can do the same. I wonder if we’ll need to transport some of my family to Buckhannon for a while. I wonder if the groundwater is affected. I wonder what we as a state will do about Freedom Industries, the source of this crisis. I wonder how much impact the crisis will have economically, emotionally, physically, spiritually. Even when the pipes are flushed and the ban is lifted, we can’t forget. We have to take care of ourselves and our water. We cannot forget.