Every day I woke at the rising of the sun and made the journey for water from the Great Well. It was a seven kilometer trip, and while the first half was easy as I was unburdened, the return trip carrying 25 pounds of water left me nearly broken each day.
I had made this trip nearly every day since I was six years old, first with my mother and for the last three years, after she became too weak, on my own. The water I carried was just enough for the two of us for drinking and cooking. It was also as much as my small frame could carry – not one drop more.
On a spring day four months ago, as I walked along the path to the well, I noticed a tender green shoot rising from the harsh dry land. Unlike the scrub and prickly grasses on the hard ground that could survive the heat and drought, this little heartbeat appeared tender and capable of beauty. But I knew without nourishment, it had little chance to survive.
I set down my heavy load and touched it gently. The strength of its tenderness made me believe it could survive if I only portioned some of my precious water to it. I believed in Beauty. I believed Beauty should be protected and preserved. Wasn’t this how everyone thought? Who would ever allow Beauty to die?
With my two hands pushed tightly together, I cupped water from my load and poured it gently at the base of Beauty. In a moment, it was gone, sucked up eagerly by the land. I prayed that it had traveled down to the point where it could feed Beauty and allow it to live and grow.
When I returned the next day on my journey to the Great Well, I saw that Beauty had grown, just a little, and looked greener and stronger than the day before. Once again I shared a cupped handful of water on my journey back.
As the days passed, Beauty grew and finally one day on the way to the well I saw it had opened, ever so slightly, to show its vibrant colors – sunrise yellow near the center of each bloom transitioning to pink, the pink of lips after a sip of cool water.
Since Beauty had grown and was now illuminated with color, it needed even more nourishing water, so on my return I allocated two handfuls. The water I gave was priceless, but Beauty returned something even more valuable to me.
One day on my trip back from the well, after I had given Beauty its drink of life, I noticed other footprints in the earth around Beauty. That night as I lie in my bed, I wondered what Beauty did while I was not in its presence. Did Beauty open for others, allowing them to gaze on it, to smell its fragrance and to touch its soft petals? I bristled at this thought; Beauty should be shared only with me as it was my water that brought Beauty to life.
That next morning my friends suggested a new path to the Great Well, a better path. I could not forsake Beauty, so I traveled my familiar path alone, and continued to do so the next day and the next. I didn’t know whether the new path would yield beauty, even beauty that was tainted as mine now was by my suspicions.
I continued to feed Beauty with my water, but I noticed that it would not open when I passed it on the way to the well. Only after I gave it water and waited a few moments did it open and show it colors to me. The sharing between us happened only after I gave what Beauty wanted from me.
When I saw the colors of Beauty, though, I pushed aside the concerns I held. I remember how Beauty had brightened my life and I yearned desperately for that feeling each day. I continued to walk the way of Beauty and accepted its conditional love; my friends stayed to their new path and I traveled alone.
Over the next few weeks, though, Beauty began to sag. Its colors were no longer what I remembered them to be, now more like pale sunlight and grapefruit. Its edges wilted and its face no longer stretched towards the sun.
Each day it seemed Beauty receded a little more. But Beauty had to live for I needed it, so each day I sacrificed a little more of my water to it. I poured and I poured, so that each day I had less and less. But Beauty did not respond to my sacrifice.
Then, yesterday, as I walked back from the well, I spotted a new shoot just up the path from Beauty. This shoot, like Beauty in the beginning, was green and alive and vibrant. Silently, it called to me to water it, but I knew I would have to choose between this new shoot and Beauty – I could not serve both and expect either to live.
I passed by the new shoot and went to Beauty, who had fully slumped to the earth, its petals lying on the ground, burnt by the harsh rays of the sun.
Without my water, Beauty had no chance to live, but even with it I was unsure about its prospects. I withheld water from it also and returned to my home.
That night I cried. I needed Beauty in my life. I could not see myself living without it. Beauty had made me happy, but it was a now ancient memory. I could no longer pour water on a dead flower and expect it to return. I needed to find other beauty in my life and give my water to it so it would grow.
Based on the saying “You will not gain anything by watering a dead flower”
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