In our kitchen, there is a shallow bay window overlooking the peeling deck. The bay window sill provides space above the sink for stuff three items deep that spiders, over the years, have used as anchors for their webs. There is an old ceramic cow-creamer, a few vases that we put flowers in or not, a cheap radio that picks up a staticy NPR, a solar lantern eternally charging and of course plants. Some of the plants have been there for years like the bamboo and aloe. Most of the plants that live there seem to be happy. Being right above the sink, we actually remember to water them regularly and there is a fair amount of sun that, between 10 AM and 1:00, filters through the tops of the maples.
I do the dishes in this household, so I spend a lot of time at this window and I happen to notice the plants a lot, and, I confess, I have my favorites. Which ones are my favorites? There are two little Bromeliaceae (related to the pineapple) that have been thriving on sunlight and daily misting from a spray bottle. There is one plant that is also hydroponic (living on water and sunlight) that shares a mug of water with a spider plant. The former has no roots. Its thing is to grow slowly, like a green snake, but it is covered in little pointy nubs that make it look a little like a cactus but its points don't prick. It is these last two plants I want to talk about.
Like I said, they live in a mug of water. Every week, if I remember to, I add water to their mug, replacing the quarter inch of evaporation. Yesterday I wondered if I should replace all of the water in the mug like I do when we have flowers in a vase. (The blooms of cut flower bouquets last longer than the freshness of the water in the vase, which stagmates and begins to smell unless we refresh it.) To my surprise, when I inspected the water in the mug and smelled it, I found that it was crystal clear and odor free. This is water that hasn't been changed for at least a year! All I have ever done is top it with a fraction of an inch of tap water every week. The quality of the water reminds me of some springs I have seen where the water comes from deep down. It conjures a cherished childhood memory of looking through the bottom of a glass bottomed boat into the depths of a pristine lagoon where the still water on which we floated, was perfectly clear, magnifying the interweaving roots of cypress and mangrove trees and the deeper blue caverns where mermaids were surely hiding. It also reminds me of a boggy wildlife preserve near where we live that has a class 1 wetland at its core, through which a crystal clear stream threads.
What I am saying is, the water in this mug is rather special. It was there all along waiting for me to discover it . . . our own tiny lagoon. I wonder how Stephen Buhner would describe it. He is the one who introduced the idea of "wild water" to me, and the notion that, once you relax whatever science has taught you about water, and begin to relate to water as a mysterious amorphic "element" that is synonymous with creation and the mystery of life, you start being seduced by your own ability to wonder. Sure, you can go online and google, "How do plants clean water?" and you come up with something like, "As with air, plants that live on and in the water absorb carbon dioxide and expel oxygen. In aquatic environments, this is helpful to fish and improves water quality. Plants in aquatic systems also absorb nutrients, bacteria, metals, and chemicals."
OK, that might explain why the water in the mug that has been home to these two plants for years is comparable to the water in a pristine class 1 wetland but I have to wonder where am I in this picture now that I have peered into this mug and discovered this pure wild water? I'm in this picture too. As a poet I have to ask what is my water like, I mean the water that comprises 80% of me? Is it like the stale water in a vase that needs refreshing? Or is it like the water in this mug that maintains the life of the plants who, in turn, maintain the wildness of the water?
We are so used to thinking that we are born pristine, the water breaks and we emerge. We live the best we can and as well as we can and as long as we can while our bodies struggle against whatever comes up, but eventually time defeats us and we pass away . . . kind of like plants in a vase. These hydroponic plants tell a different story. They don't pollute or compromise their home in the mug. And all they need is a bit of water and sunlight to live in their own little wilderness on my kitchen sill. I want to live more like that. I know I can't live just like that, but can I live more like that? Can we?
(Article changed on Oct 11, 2022 at 11:59 AM EDT)
