Watering

You have to look very closely to see any green remaining in the patches of dead and dying grass that dot our backyard. The drought, with an assist from relentless small feet playing catch, jumping rope, turning cartwheels, has finished off the once lush patch of green and even the clover that lasted a bit longer.

I hate seeing the dry land out our back window. It’s a reminder of the bleak feeling that never fully fades from life in 2022. The pandemic is ongoing. Democracy is at risk. War is raging. The planet is dying. There is no escaping the knowledge that my children face a future full of more uncertainty and danger than I knew growing up. I want to run away with them and protect them, to save them from this feeling that all the things around us are withering; when I was their age, the world seemed abloom.

But my sad backyard sends me another message, too: Whatever you water will grow.

This message has come to me repeatedly lately—from the wise words of a favorite writer and friend; from time spent in a lovely yard in a place not stricken by drought; from the corner of the yard where someone let the hose drip while we were on vacation; from the decade-old plant on my front porch, whose flowers were dormant for years but suddenly burst open with a hopeful greeting last week.

I may not have as much to give as I once did. This is true about water, and it is true of my time, attention and energy. There is a long and growing list of worthy recipients, and I must choose which will receive the limited resources. Some choices are obvious, as there exist in this world essential needs that only I can meet. Others are harder: do we let the lawn die in hopes of saving the trees, which may provide shelter and shade and comfort of the survive, but if they die could fall and cause pain or destruction? What will add the most beauty, attract the birds and their song, allow me to be a wise steward who makes the world a tiny bit better? What is the value in continuing to invest in a years-long project, even if other commitments have superseded its importance? How thin can these resources be spread before their value becomes too diminished to nurture? Or in the practice of allocating, are there ways to replenish and refresh, such that our care and contribution are maximized?

To make the world better, we must give of ourselves—wisely, yet freely—and see what we may grow.