A bucket in the bathroom. A bucket in the kitchen. Frequent trips with grey water a few steps outdoors to water trees and garden. The novelty soon wore off : it became more of just something that was done rather than a nuisance, like brushing teeth or mending one’s gloves.
I’ve spent some time with one of my sons and his wife in California.
They are carrying out these conservation practices in an area not at all like-minded so I find their environmental concerns, thusly expressed, admirable.
Did I bring back to my own home similar activities. No. But what they are doing is a definite complement to my awareness of water usage during this time of drought. I’ve lived in countries where I had to carry water from an outdoor pump and boy, does that experience ever give an appreciation of each and every drop you use. Since that time I have retained an appreciation of hot water coming straight out of a tap. Washing in cold water on a cold day quenches the spirit; having fed coins into a meter for hot bath water (which quickly became tepid in a cold tub in a cold bathroom) still causes me grateful thoughts at the flip of a faucet today. Simple, necessary pleasures born of experience.
But, no, so far I have not put buckets in kitchen and bathroom to collect grey water. I expect I will, but not yet. Containers to collect rainwater are more in mind. Also a way of emptying the bathtub via a hose up and out the window. (Any suggestions?)
And I am dealing with guilt. If I leave the tap on while brushing my teeth the ‘shouldn’t let it run’ comes to mind. Do I need to fill the bathtub quite so full? How many litres of water are running wastefully down the drain as I wait for the water to turn hot so I can wash my hair? When enough of these pricks to the joyful bubbles of living occur I erupt in rebellion and gladly and madly flush the toilet when it is mellow yellow or lavish the herb beds with an extra watering or let the tap run needlessly as I rinse off vegetables. It feels good, darn it! And then I return to being careful with a sigh of having got that out of my system.
The willow tree that is in a neighbour’s yard but wonderfully intrudes on my garden, like a large guest trying not to encroach, is very water-like in its spring unfolding. Watching baby willow leaves unfurl is a daily pastime that allows me to feel I have not missed a moment of this ever-changing season. The yellow cascade of increasingly adorned branches, the sway of them in the wind, indeed suggests a waterfall. And if you stand under that tree on a sunny day the shade provided is fanciful and fleeting.
In California I played with a mockingbird, high in a tree, tossing sounds back and forth, ripples in a stream of fun. My first encounter with such a bird and I was spellbound. I was hearing two crows but I was seeing one crow and one bird that was mimicking what the crow was saying. “Mockingbird,” was the explanation. I whistled. M’bird echoed. Oh! I warbled some different notes. Back they came. Oh! Oh! Some nonsense noises on my part. Yes! Then, just as I was getting into the game, the bird flew away with a part of my heart. I am told mockingbirds have been seen not far from Victoria. I have the welcome mat out…
A robin, the other day, caused my eyebrows to shoot upward, here in my own backyard. The birdbath was newly filled and either temperature or depth of water was causing this robin concern. It hopped around the edge, took quick nervous sips, but by its actions it conveyed that what it really wanted was a bath. Then – it – walked across the water! Twice!! Before sinking gratefully and gracefully in for a rollicking bathe. Maybe it was more a skim with wings aflutter, if explanations be needed. But it was cause for awe and appreciative applause.
Karen has her finger on the trickle and flow pulse of nature at her habitat in Victoria, BC.
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