I have never had to think of being a steward of water.

Until now, until this place - where everything relies on it - lives and dies on it because of its presence or absence.

We have two huge tanks - these were half full and it hadn’t rained for awhile. I like baths - regular baths and the garden here is massive - like 100 square meters of vege. And the water line from the hills has stopped running. The suburban part of me does not want to have to deal with this - water - seemingly always there on demand - even if you pay for it through your rates - but here there are no public water service - when you’re out - you’re in trouble - or else you could call the water guys at $400 a pop.

Anyway, I got my boots on - headed up the mountain to the spring where our summer supply is every flowing - fifteen years without skipping a beat - even in the driest of summers. I knelt down in the bush - pulled out the debris and clawed at the silt and muck - bubble bubble went the pipes as they cleared themselves and gravity began to pull the water back down the lines - and then it began to rain.

Home again I checked every water catchment and walked the rain pelted roof edges to clear gutters and empty filters - I was driven to get those tanks fill and it was a pleasure to be soaked to the skin while doing it.

Today the sun is out - the spring from the hills is still not running - requires another trip out - but for this - the pleasure of taking care of life - the life of this garden, my soulful baths and the requisite attentiveness to even notice the situation is all part of the joy of this life here.