“To realize one's destiny is a person's only obligation.”

Luke has a book, The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. On the back cover it reads, “To realize one's destiny is a person's only obligation.”

“Mom, have you read The Alchemist?” He asked, passing through the kitchen, as I stood at the sink scrubbing a muffin pan. A frustrating task of swirling, scrubbing, “spongery” drudgery.

As my mind and intellect intersects with the children’s minds and happenings of their lives, I consider the far-reaching journey of my own mind and how the kitchen sink is so very far away from the dreams my thoughts take me to.

I stand there in their lives, growing up speedily before me, practicing one act play lines with them, looking at school papers, and giggling at Caroline’s very normal pre-teen attitude. And yet, here I am, their mother and also dreaming of seeing earth from space one day, watching the costs of private space flights and reading about the Apollo 11 crew. Yes, I read countless books and articles, scribble down my passing thoughts, and sometimes drive or fly away to watch the lightbulbs go on in farmers’ minds across the nation as they realize their soils are dying, water is depleted/polluted, and they need new life breathed into their land, heart, and intellect.

Yes, new life we all need. A breath of fresh, informed air would do us all good. A series of deep breaths too.

Caroline hollers from the west side of the farmhouse, “Look at the sunset mom.”

I run out, dishtowel in hand, the old-fashioned white kind that dry pots and pans better than the rest. The clothes dryer also goes off. But, we have a minute there together at the west window and I tell her it’s beautiful, “So beautiful Caroline. You’re so right. One worth stopping for.”

The wind that beats Nebraskans most days slows to an evening calm. I shut the kitchen lights off, only the one glowing fixture over the sink remains. I look at the faucet, considering how easily water pours from it. I feel the finiteness of the precious water as I rinse my hands once more. I consider what’s in store as I peer out eastward. Way over there somewhere is New York City.

“They will all need a drink too forever,” I think to myself. New Yorker neighbors far to the east and York, Nebraska neighbors just a few minutes to the west all share that common denominator; they need water to live.

The dryer buzzer hums to silence. I decide to leave that last load to fold in the morning. I go upstairs to draw a bath. More water usage to consider. Everywhere I turn I am reminded.

I sink into the tub and write these words. I think about how swiftly time is running out. I think about the children, their lives, their dreams, and my dreams. Dreams directly connected to every drop of water. The world’s dreams are connected to that water too.

I cherish these autumn moments, arranging pumpkins on the porch Caroline grew next to her pigs this summer. The fall decor pleases me. It’s symbolic, an expression of gratitude for the green growing portion year.

It’s the transition time between harvest, then relentless cold, then the warm light of life again. I can almost hear the seeds settling in their piles for a long winter’s rest. I overhear the whispers of chilly roots dreaming and hoping for spring to come again. The worms, insects, and microbes scurry to warm nooks and crannies of soil to live and hibernate. The water braces itself for the big freeze.

After my bath, I sort through the coat closet and bring last year’s winter coats out. I hold them up and shake the stale air from them. They still fit. They’ll do.

“But what will we do?” I ask myself. The house completely silent now with sleepers. Everyone but me, my book, my prayers, and my heart beating. I drink a glass of water. I think of the significance of it. I think of the quote on Luke’s book: “To realize one's destiny is a person's only obligation.”

I am obligated to a purpose. This water beneath me, soaking through the spongy layers of the aquifer as I wring out my kitchen sponge. We need to treasure this purpose, protect it, renew it. There are so many more mouths that need a drink beyond the four living here in a farmhouse.

I quietly turn to the stairway, and pull shut the farmhouse door to the upstairs. I climb with my worries and dreams intact. I lean back on the bed, and think of that trip one day I dream of to view earth from space. I pray it’s still a blue planet by then. A fresh water rich planet.

If we could only see the treasure before us standing here right now. Water, more precious than gold. We cannot eat money, yet we act like it. My head hits the pillow, but I won’t fully rest until I have breathed my last breath trying to inform a world disconnected from the soil, precious water, and itself.

I am trying to meet my obligations with purpose. I will try Luke. I will.

Copyright© 2023 All Rights Reserved, Kerry Hoffschneider