What Waters Us

There is something fascinating about watching people.

Have you ever found yourself quietly observing strangers, creating little stories about who they are and the lives they lead?

Perhaps it’s the woman reading alone at a coffee shop.

The father chasing his toddler through the park.

The friends laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

Or the older couple swaying together while music drifts through the air.

Recently, I watched one such couple.

She leaned back into her husband’s chest as he stood behind her, his hands resting gently on her hips while hers settled over his. They moved together without much thought, gently swaying with the music.

They were probably in their sixties.

Old enough that life had almost certainly asked a great deal of them.

Children, perhaps. Careers. Illness. Loss. Celebrations. Ordinary Tuesdays. Thousands of small moments that make up a shared life.

Of course, I don’t know any of that.

All I really know is the story I created from a single moment.

Still, I found myself thinking,

That’s it.

That’s the kind of life I hope to build.

Not because they appeared perfect.

But because they looked at ease with one another.

There was something so comforting about watching two people who still seemed to enjoy simply being together.

It made me wonder what had shaped them into the couple standing before me.

Not just the grand milestones.

The ordinary choices.

The conversations they’d had over decades.

The ways they’d spoken to one another.

The ways in which they’d made a home.

The ways they’d chosen one another.

The people they’d become, together.

A friend of mine teaches science.

One day her students asked what would happen if they watered identical plants with different liquids instead of water.

Rather than answer the question, she turned it into an experiment.

They placed several plants in the same window.

One received only water.

Another received water and fertilizer.

Others were watered with milk, soda, or nothing at all.

Over time, the differences became impossible to ignore.

Each plant began in much the same place. The same light. The same soil. The same opportunity to grow.

The only difference was what it continually received.

What it was given shaped the way it grew.

Some flourished.

Some struggled.

Some barely survived.

I’ve thought about that experiment often.

Not because I think people are plants, but because we are all growing in response to what continually nourishes us.

We are constantly being watered by the people and ideas we surround ourselves with.

The conversations we have.

The books we read.

The media we consume.

The communities we belong to.

The friendships we nurture.

The partners we choose.

The words spoken to us.

The words we speak to ourselves.

The voices we trust.

Whether we realize it or not, we absorb them.

They become part of the soil our lives grow from.

Almost imperceptibly, they begin to change us.

Over time they shape what we believe is normal.

What we expect from love.

What we tolerate.

What we pursue and aspire to.

Even the way we speak to ourselves.

I think that’s why choosing our relationships matters so much.

Not simply because of companionship.

But because every relationship participates in who we are becoming and in the world we’re creating together.

Some encourage us to become more curious.

More compassionate.

More courageous.

Others slowly convince us to shrink.

To settle.

To distrust ourselves.

None of it happens overnight.

Just as a plant doesn’t change after a single watering, neither do we.

Growth rarely does.

It is the steady nourishment that transforms us.

And what transforms us rarely stops with us.

The way we are nourished becomes the way we nourish others.

It finds its way into our friendships.

Our families.

Our classrooms.

Our workplaces.

Our neighborhoods.

The way we speak during disagreement.

The grace we extend when someone falls short.

The curiosity we bring to people whose lives look different from our own.

The hope we offer.

Or the fear we spread.

Like roots beneath the surface, we become connected in ways we rarely notice.

Each of us influencing, and being influenced by, the ecosystems we inhabit.

Looking back at that older couple, I don’t think what I admired most was that they were still dancing together.

I think I admired everything that made that dance possible.

Years of tending something.

Of watering it with patience, kindness, laughter, honesty, forgiveness, and shared joy.

Of choosing, again and again, what would help it to grow.

That’s true of every meaningful relationship we hope to build.

It isn’t sustained by one grand gesture.

It’s nourished, little by little, by what we choose to feed it.

And that is such an important question to ask ourselves.

Not simply, Who do I hope to spend my life with?

But,

What am I allowing to shape the person I am becoming? What am I nourishing myself with?

Because whatever feeds us, doesn’t end with us.

It grows into the words we speak.

The love we offer.

The patience we extend.

The way we teach our children.

The way we show up for our friends.

The way we care for our communities.

We become part of one another’s lives in ways we rarely stop to consider.

In the end, we’re all watering something.

Always, 
Your Trusted Friend ♥