Introduction
Beyond my roles as a mother, daughter, spouse, and translator, I have been a counselor for many years—with concerns that are sometimes personal, sometimes professional, and sometimes environmental. I love the world of dreams—both the nightly visions and those that come to me during the day. Sometimes I have found paths within labyrinths—perhaps thanks to self-awareness, my heightened sensitivity (HSP), and, of course, a kind of divine grace. And, of course, I have often been lost in confusion, mostly due to ignorance.
Among the more than thirty books I have translated, some have profoundly influenced me—including the trilogy by Dr. Jean Shinoda Bolen: Archetypal Symbols in Women’s Psychology, Archetypal Symbols in Men’s Psychology, and Archetypal Symbols in Women’s Psychology after Midlife. In this book, too, deities and archetypal figures are often mentioned, rooted in those works, and I have drawn upon them extensively in my counseling practice.
But this is the first time I have dared to write. An inner force compelled me to create, guided by dreams interwoven with my inner and outer concerns.
Daughters of Water is a collection of stories that may carry a touch of magical realism, a hint of eco-feminism, and a compassionate invitation to once again hear forgotten songs—in honor of water and life.
Throughout the writing of this book, I have always felt the imaginary yet kind presence of a white owl—a symbol of wisdom silently observing me.
Introduction by the White Owl
“Remember those days of song and water”
The wind, blowing from distant lands, brings me stories—stories of daughters, each a fragment of water:
Nile’s daughter, whose melody calmed the river’s sleep;
The bride of the qanat, who kept the aqueduct alive with empty hands;
Ganga’s daughter, who carried ashes to return the spirit to the soil;
And a girl in the land of the sun, draped in mist, with eyes as deep as the sea.
But a day came when no one knew their names. Names were forgotten. And with them, the value of water.
Without song and name, rivers lost their way, wells filled with sighs, and the sea no longer had dreams to dream.
I, the white owl, am a witness in the night, and this book is a mirror, hoping that someone may remember again: remember the daughters of water, the song of the river, and themselves…
On the Verge of Sleep
This story began with a dream, in the midst of a drought.
In that dream, a woman sat by the fire, a woman who had, for years, conversed with the silent voices of goddesses:
Hecate, guardian of thresholds;
Metis, wisdom veiled in mystery;
Sophia, the voice without judgment;
Hestia, warmth of the hidden hearth.
But that night, none of them were enough.
Drought had taken residence in the soil, in her mind, and in her memories. And just then, the sound of water came from afar.
A woman emerged from the mist; her steps as gentle as rain, a trace of silver in her hair, with the blue of the earth’s veins upon her body. And she was Anahita—not a distant goddess, but a living, ancient, and flowing presence.
Anahita said:
“You must remember the daughters of water. Tell their stories, to pass through the drought of the soul, and to be water, even drop by drop, in the world.”
This book began there—with dreams that remind, with stories that are both poetry and psychological trace, and with women who are each, in their essence, daughters of water: from sea or river, from tear or mist, from wound or birth.
If you are reading this book, perhaps you, too, are one of them. Perhaps a daughter of water who, for a time, mistook herself for drought. May these stories awaken the sound of rain within you.
Annie and the New Encounter
Night had fallen, and Annie sat by the fire. Logs burned gently, and within the flames, familiar faces danced.
Hecate, bowing with her torch;
Metis, carrying wisdom in silence;
Sophia, locking eyes with Annie, free of judgment and hurry;
Hestia, with the warmth of her hearth, softened Annie’s heart.
For years, Annie had conversed with these four bodiless, ageless, nameless women—sometimes in dreams, sometimes within the pages of forgotten books, and sometimes when she cared for a sick cat or sowed an unnamed seed in distant soil.
But that night, the fire seemed to wish to say something else. Drought within the earth, drought in the eyes of cats thirsting for water, drought in the worn hands of lonely elder women drinking tea with Annie… This inner drought had taken root, and all the books and prayers could not quench the thirst.
Then, a new sound and presence came from afar—not with torch, nor silence, nor clear words, but with the voice of water and the scent of rain-soaked earth.
A tall woman emerged from the mist. Her robe was blue—not the blue of the sky, but the blue beneath the earth’s skin. Her hair reached her waist, sprinkled with petals of silver. The sound of her steps fell like droplets upon stone.
Annie was not afraid. Yet she felt something stir within her, like a slender stem trembling before rain.
The woman said:
“You know me little, but I have always been in the rivers beside which you sat, in the cold water you gave to the cat, in your grandmother’s tears when she told stories, in the inexplicable longing that made you cry at the dryness of the world.”
Annie whispered:
“You… Anahita?”
The woman nodded. The other goddesses—Hecate, Metis, Sophia, Hestia—stepped back quietly, not with envy, but with deep respect.
For the first time, Annie realized that knowing does not always come from reading or understanding. Sometimes knowing means an open embrace in the moment of encounter. And in that moment, she, with all her unknowing, was ready.
In the night’s silence, Annie looked again at the image of the withered tree and the white owl. Her mind lingered on the women who had appeared in the counseling room, women of archetypes—Demeter, Athena, Hera—who had felt the drought within themselves, searching for the water necessary to revive their parched souls.
Daughters of Water
Simin, the Demeter Woman
Early in the morning, a middle-aged woman arrived at the counseling office: Simin, embodying the Demeter archetype, her eyes full of pain, her gaze like a bird’s flight returning to an empty nest after its young had gone. Annie smiled softly and welcomed her. As Simin recounted her feelings of loneliness and emptiness after her child’s departure, Annie quietly sought refuge in her mental images: a great tree with broad branches, empty of birds, and a white owl observing from afar.
Farahnaz, the Hera Woman
Farahnaz, a widow embodying the Hera archetype, had a soul overtaken by drought. Her eyes still held the fire of love, yet her heart was broken by life’s suffering. Annie said softly:
“Sometimes suffering and solitude dry the earth, but rain is on the way. The path is long, but you are not alone.”
Shahin, the Persephone Woman
Shahin, a middle-aged woman embodying the Persephone archetype, carried many untold stories behind her smile. Her voice barely audible, she asked:
“Who will hear my untold stories?”
Annie listened attentively and said:
“Stories free themselves when spoken. You are not alone; your stories deserve to be heard.”
Sanam, the Hestia Woman
Sanam, a middle-aged Hestia archetype, guardian of the hearth, had chosen family over career opportunities years ago. Now, in midlife, financial difficulties cast a heavy shadow. She said:
“I always thought I would keep the family fire alive, but now the flames are dying, and I feel lost.”
Annie smiled and replied:
“Sometimes to keep the fire alive, you must surrender to the warmth within yourself; only then will your light and strength revive.”
Hamideh, the Athena Woman
Next was Hamideh, eyes sharp and heavy with hidden sorrow, embodying Athena—the wise, strategic, and ever-logical archetype.
She said firmly:
“My life is full of hidden battles. I have fought to preserve my values, for justice, for myself… But now, I feel my armor worn, and an arrow has pierced my heart.”
Annie paused, then said:
“Being strong sometimes means accepting vulnerability. This is the start of the path to renewal.”
Mina, the Aphrodite Woman
Mina entered, once the embodiment of Aphrodite, now her face a shadow of past beauty and charm. Her eyes filled with sorrow and longing, she said:
“I no longer have the allure of the past, nor the zest Aphrodite once gave me. I feel that only a memory of me remains. Aphrodite has done me no favor.”
Annie smiled gently:
“Sometimes what is within us transcends appearance and years. Let’s explore together; perhaps you will see your true self.”
Olduz, the Artemis Woman
Finally, Olduz, embodying Artemis, independent and strong, with eyes reflecting a quiet forest, spoke:
“I have always kept myself, needing no one. Yet these days, I feel like a dried-up forest; no living being finds shelter with me.”
Annie said softly:
“Sometimes in solitude, we feel true thirst. Perhaps it is time to allow yourself to be watered.”
Within these women, psychological droughts had taken root, as if water were merely a memory. Annie thought:
“Perhaps this is not only my story, but that of all women who have forgotten to flow like water. Perhaps these stories are reminders.”
Her gaze lingered on the labyrinth painting. Each story contained something that had to be heard. They had to remember the daughters of water. Perhaps this remembrance is the key to ending inner drought. And in that moment, she recalled Anahita and said:
“The daughters of water must be remembered, so life may begin anew.”
The Dance of Two Faces of Water
In her dreams, Annie always heard two voices:
The gentle, soft melody of rain dancing upon leaves, like a mother’s caress awakening the earth;
A loud, furious roar, a flood breaking the walls of the qanat and shaking the soil.
One night, while walking in the abandoned qanat, she saw the bride of the qanat—a woman half in shadow, half in light, as if water itself had taken human form.
The bride said:
“Water is feminine when it comes softly, nurturing life, caressing the earth. But it is masculine when it roars, breaking order, sometimes destructive to rebuild.”
Annie took a deep breath and asked:
“So when there is drought, where is the water?”
The bride smiled:
“It is hidden within the earth, waiting for the moment to dance again. That dance is a balance between feminine and masculine, tenderness and power.”
That night, Annie awoke to the soft sound of rain. Silver Cat lay beside her, calm and serene. And in her heart, a drop of hope began to flow.
Baranak, the Qanat Girl
They said that qanat was dead, that drought had gnawed at the bones of the earth for years. They said, “Forget it, will water ever return?” But she did not listen.
She was the daughter of one of those silent women who, years ago, carried water in clay jars from the qanat’s mouth to their homes, singing for every drop. Her name was Baranak—not for the rain that did not come, but in remembrance of the distant rains her grandmother said fell from the prayers of daughters.
Baranak knelt on the ground, hands touching the stones, and began moving aside the dry earth—not with shovel or machine, but with hands, with heart, with a heart that still heard the voice of water.
One day, an old man approached from afar:
“Child, where does this path lead?”
She smiled:
“To water.”
“It has been dry here for years.”
“But water always exists; we’ve just forgotten its voice.”
The old man sat beside her. Then came a woman, then a child, and gradually a crowd gathered. After forty days, still no water had appeared—but hearts were wet with hope, with compassion, with remembrance.
At dawn on the forty-first day, a stone beneath Baranak trembled. A soft sound, like the earth breathing, rose. And then, a small droplet emerged from the darkness. That drop was the first word of the story of the return of the daughters of water.
The End