Pablo Neruda wrote, relative to the “bristling” earth:
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
I’m feeling drawn to thinking about water today. It’s the same sort of impulse that led me to write Monsoon, my very first picture book, which was published all of fourteen years ago. It seems more imperative now.
Maybe it’s just that in the time that’s passed, water has become ever more precious, an ever more fragile resource. Look at what they’re finding out about the delicate dance of ocean currents in maintaining the planet’s temperature.
Maybe I’m missing the ice-cold waterfall I walked through, barefoot, three years ago in Nepal.
Start with the jacket, with the small fish leaping in one corner, the tumultuous wash of blue and the swoop of the title and byline into the book’s interior.
The title page takes this further. The fish have wings. The waves take on a purple hue.
Still, it’s pretty straightforward. But turn the page and this is what you see:
There it is.
All the water in the world is all the water in the world.
Simple. Elegant. And in the light of the slowing currents, deeply true. There’s more. I can’t quote the text without showing the images, and I don’t want to spoil the effect of the page turn. But between the art and the words, this book delivers its message with power and grace.
And now I think again about that waterfall. How I walked gasping through it. How it made me feel, for the next few hours, as if I were walking on clouds. How such things are gifts to us from the universe.
There are quite a few books for young readers now that address environmental issues including climate change, but it’s rare to find one that drives home the interconnectedness of living things with the systems and forces that keep the planet capable of sustaining life. Maybe we should be sending copies to policymakers in the United States.