The Water, the Girl, and the Mothers

On the lines of religion, aqueducts in a California mission, and becoming free of patriarchy

The water, the girl, and the mothers try to teach us their wisdom. They each claim to know the best way, but not all ways make us fully alive.

Water’s streams

For example, the water itself isn't linear. Have you ever watched closely as you pour water onto the soil? It is messy. Some streams one way, some flows in another. Little rivulets are formed as liquid rushes with the pull of gravity, swirling, picking up dark earth.  It would be impossible to mark the exact course with precise degrees on a compass, even though in retrospect, we can name what direction the water flowed, evidenced by where it coalesced.

Faith is like water. We see its presence. We hope for the destination. But we can't forge the path. We often confidently state, "this route is required" and "don't touch that boulder," but even then, the water that hits the rock just bounces back and keeps heading for its finish line. It keeps moving to where it is called unless it loses its muster, entirely evaporated by sand and cracked earth. And yet, even in the wilderness we can find an oasis.

Aqueduct

Despite being naturally free spirited, my childhood faith resembled an aqueduct. On homeschool hikes or lazy Sundays, my family would meander through the nearby California mission, La Purísima Mission State Historic Park. I loved the living history days, where we'd clean wool, form it into string, and watch the weavers use looms to craft blankets. We'd put holy water on our foreheads and eat freshly cooked tortillas de maíz. A few years back, I intentionally traveled North along El Camino Real with my own kids, partially so they could experience this tradition with me.

Even on the most quiet days at the mission, wandering among the fountains and coastal chaparral, I'd search for stone linear-lines, marking the aqueducts. These miniature cobblestone trenches cut through each section of the mission. I'd straddle the little canals, less than one foot in diameter wide. If I found simple debris damming them up, I'd try to clear it out. In summer I searched for uneven sections where the water hadn't yet evaporated, usually stagnant and yellowing. In the winter, the water flowed freely, from the spring and emptying into pools and passing through the reservoir. If I remember correctly, they even made their way through the dormitory for converted indigenous girls, el monjerio, so they had access to water without leaving their small compound.

The girls' dormitory was one of my favorite places at the mission. I loved playing there, imagining that I too was Chumash, baking bread in the big outdoor oven. I wondered if each night was like a slumber party. Or were the girls afraid, scared to be separated from their families? And why were they there exactly? Were they in love when they got married so young? It was only later that I realized these girls were not exactly free. Many, if not most, were manipulated to convert, and were likely little more than property, used for labor or as breeding wives of White Spanish colonizers. Based on accounts of those trying unsuccessfully to leave the missions and the indigenous rebellions, I think that in today's terms we would call them victims of trafficking.

My aqueducts ran straight and sure, right and wrong, and I ran alongside them. My faith was as clear as the fresh rain that flooded through the mission's veins.

But I've encountered too many dams, formed by mud, rotting leaves, and broken, crisscrossing branches. The blockages force me to overflow out of the paved straight lines, and into the surrounding earth. Even so, I am convinced those like me, whose water is anything but dried, will still unite at the destination. We trust the water's movement. The water reflects its Creator; it embodies its parentage, from where all faith flows. The water itself, not the man-made aqueducts, will guide us home.

The Mothers

The Mother told her,

"Daughter, you must go, you have no choice. Stay in the dorms. Be with your sisters. Work hard and marry a White man. He will take care of you. Do not fight, do not flee. This is for your own good."

Despite what her mother told her, she was managed by a patriarchy and still oppressed, blending in with billions of other girls throughout the ages. She tried to make the most of it, for her own good, and then for the good of her daughters. She died of small pox in her early thirties.

Mother Earth told her,

"Daughter, be free as the wind and do whatever you please. Only care for your kin—humankind, and respect the water, the sky, and living things. You will be happy and content."

And yet, despite doing whatever her heart pleased, the girl was still oppressed. Her longings ruled her and they couldn't be sedated. Often she ran with delight, but when fulfilling her desires curdled her blood with shame, she had no absolution. Her feet were heavy with grief and her soul was not entirely free, even as she swayed and danced with the wind. It went on like this for years until she felt nearly as ancient as the stars. She became ashes in the breeze.

The Mother Church told her (but it was really a man),

"Dear daughter, serve quietly, as gentle as a lamb. Tuck yourself into a box, for this pleases God (with the exception of performing something supernatural, like a miracle, we let that one slide because it makes the people come and crave). But as a rule of thumb, hide yourself in the background, you don't need to be seen. After all, do you see any other women up there?  Either way, we'll keep you in check. Our patriarchal power structures will intimidate you, training you to beg for permission lest you usurp our authority. For that is Jezebel's rebellion and it is the worst. Oh, and no need for pearls, even though they are pretty. And whatever you do, don't show your cleavage! If you can, try to marry a pastor, for you have nothing to offer without him. Unless you'd like to be children's director? In the home, yes, that is your calling. You are your husband's helpmate there, after all. Don't forget, never deny him sex. You'll probably love it, you'll never have any problems, as childbirth, health issues, and even just switching it "on" after being celibate your whole life without sexual education are not concerns. But, honey, don't get scandalous by indirectly asking—which is demanding—for your own pleasure. And of course, you'll love being a stay-at-home mother. Don't forget to serve in all areas, without complaining, far beyond your strength, like a good little martyr. That is guaranteed to make you the best and most fulfilled Christian woman ever."

Yet, despite following the straight path of the Mother Church's directives, the girl was still oppressed. She was unfulfilled as she worked diligently, bowing to men instead of partnering with them, a slave to religion. She was a silent and still porcelain doll, displayed far up on Mother's shelf.

But then, the girl felt the movement of the water inside her. It rocked her ridged body back-and-forth, back-and-forth, until her stiff, dishonest, enamel-self gained enough momentum. The girl toppled off the shelf, colliding with the truth and breaking into hundreds of pieces. She rose, dripping in water, free from her porcelain cage. Her hands were genuine. She marveled at their motion, functionality, and how wide they were in what they had to offer. She noticed movement and glanced up, only to see herself in the mirror. The reflection was dim, blurry even, but it was her true-self, her authentic face. Despite her grief in what she endured, in the tilt of her chin and in the brightness of her eyes she could see resolve, a blooming confidence and joy. But most wonderful of all was that when she saw her chest, her heart was laid bare. No more could it be named deceitful, for it had been made whole. The girl went to find her true mother, and she found him.

And Jesus told her,

"Come to me, my daughter, oh so heavy and weary and in need of comfort. I am your oasis, your refreshing life source."

And the girl became fully alive.

“As a mother comforts her child,
    so I will comfort you…” Isaiah 66:13 (NABRE)

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