In my long-time bioregional group, the Kansas Area Watershed Council, we regularly have a water ritual. Standing in a circle around some springtime prairie plants in the middle of a large native prairie, we step forward, one at a time when we feel moved to pour a little water from parts close-by or far-flung onto an emerging milkweed or verbena, and say a prayer or wish, ask for help, give thanks, or just take a breath. I’ve seen people share water from all over the continent and world, sometimes mixing wishes and songs with water from Walden Pond, someone’s kitchen in Kansas City, a stream in central Mexico, and a spring in southwest Kansas.
Yesterday, as I drank the last of the water from my traveling Goddard cup, I realized I had been flying across the country with my own water ritual. This red container had water from Goddard College in Plainfield, Vt., melted ice cubes from the Skinny Pancake (great crepes) in Burlington, VT as well as what was left from my drink 30,000 feet above western New York. I added more from a water fountain in the Detroit airport, then had a flight attendant while high over Illinois pour in more water, before coming home to Lawrence, KS, where I poured in water from home. The cup traveled half a continent with me, sometimes very high in the atmosphere, and sometimes underground, like in Detroit when I got to cross through a tunnel of singing lights before emerging into the white light that led to another plane.
I find air travel to be somewhat discombobulating. After being high above the earth at 500 mph, I’m always a little here and there, waiting for all of me to arrive and settle in. This time, I just finished my water from many states and altitudes, mindsets and attitudes, grateful for the replenishment along the way. Sometimes there’s a party on your plate or a ritual in your cup. Drink up, the world seems to say, and so I do.