Water Until the Barrel Runs Dry

On drought, aging, and the quiet work of using what is left

A Rain Lily (Zephyranthes chlorosolen)

Summer heat radiating off of everything: pavement, soil, planters, even the water I’m pouring onto parched plants. I reach deep into the rain barrels as the level of stored water lowers each day. My arms press against the warm rim of the barrel; my hands hold the watering can at the best angle to lift out as much of the precious cargo possible. The drops falling from it back into the barrel sound musical and distant. It will run out soon.

My neighbor is in her garden as well. The pair of us, unspeaking, united by the common desire to keep our gardens alive. It’s too hot to be out during the day. Twilight, deepening to dusk, is when we are outside. The warm night wrapping around like a smothering weighted blanket, still more bearable than the temperatures while the sun is up.

The darkness deepens until I can barely see. The black dog is a shadow in a shadow. My bare feet gleam against the crunch of grasses and groundcover underfoot. Crisp, cracking, dry except where I’ve poured out the libations of warm, stale water. Overnight the roots will take it up and in the morning the plants will spread leaves out for the sun, fortified. By afternoon they wilt in self-defense. I wilt along with them, shrinking into the walls of an air-conditioned home the way I once retreated from snow and bitter cold into warmth.

It’s not the heat, it’s the dryness that is killing my garden. The harsh sun would be more bearable for them, if not me, bathed in humidity. I’ll water until the barrel runs dry. Then I’ll let them go, dormant for some, dying for others, having completed their mission in life of bearing fruit.

Unlike the plants, which I hope to see have a resurgence in fall once the temperatures cool down and the rains return, I have passed the springtime of life and am approaching autumn. I was granted a second season in life. Now, though, I am finding myself coming into cronedom, and winter, with an equanimity that surprises me. My children are grown and gone from home. The harvest has gone, but unlike the plants, humans don’t wither and die once seeds are set and the growing is done.

I haven’t completed my mission in life. I don’t know just what the next mission looks like in whole. I’ve begun it, I think, not the growing old gracefully part. No, I think growing old will be grumpy and slightly awkward with moments where I forget I’m a woman of a certain age and maybe even manage to act like I’m a kid… hopefully without hurting too much the next day. My mission these days is to take care of my husband and myself. To be here if my kids need me. To be here for my community, for support. Ideally that would mean grandparenting, but that’s not a near-future prospect for myself. Life is rarely clean and perfect. The garden is crispy around the edges and the mealy bugs are going ham on plants they don’t normally manage to touch.

I can’t control my aging, any more than I can cause water to fall from the sky on my command. Water grows scarce, and my energy, likewise. I plan to be more efficient so I can continue my tasks of caring for my husband, which requires me to care for myself so I can be fit enough to do so. I live with the slowly-constricting constraints of reduced energy, and like I water the garden deeply but not too often, I have to live my life knowing I will have to rest. Gone are the days of boundless productivity. I’m not enough, if I was ever enough, to do all the things I want to be able to do.

Unlike my garden, I know the rains won’t return for me like spring returns to the face of the earth in due time. Winter comes for all of us, and the water runs dry in our veins. I only have so much time remaining. I mean to use it wisely as I can. Which doesn’t mean giving up light-hearted moments and play. It means I don’t do things which aren’t going to serve my mission in life. I’m the steward of my God-given talents (which is a whole ‘nother essay I suspect) and I mean to deploy them as best I can, so I can account for them at the end of all things, when in an eternal garden I’m called to do so.

In the meantime, I’ll be out here in the garden just at dark, feeling the warmth soaking into me, listening to the water soaking into the soil. I can hear the droplets land and suck right down in there, to eventually reach the roots of the growing things and nourish them. I’ll be here too on the blog, trying to encourage you. If I can offer you the water of poetry, art, beauty, and thoughts that keep you carrying on even when you’re crispy around the edges and wilting? Well, I can call that work well done. Pass it on and encourage someone today. We can do this, whatever ‘this’ is.