What Is Your Water?

My Loves,

When my cells felt flat—exhausted after months (years?) of challenge—and my daughter officially declared this my midlife crisis (and all other crises I could only call a crisis), I got an email.

It was from my art teacher from 25 years ago.

She asked: Do you want to come to Greece for an artist residency?

No, I said.
I can’t.

My husband had died only a few months before.
My daughter was a senior in high school.
I needed a job.

There were so many good reasons why no was the right answer.

But something inside said yes.

Something inside knew.

It felt like water to a wilting plant.
Sunlight to someone sitting in a dark corner.

And my daughter—in one of the most generous, loving gifts she’s ever given me—said: go.

I wouldn’t have gone otherwise.

So I went.

I didn’t need a grief group.
I needed wildflowers.
I needed to paint a bowl of lemons.
I needed no one to need me.

The caregiver in me was done.

My daughter was the only one I wanted to hear from.
We picked out her prom dress over the phone.

And I walked.

Hills covered in wild sage, oregano, thyme, lupine, and poppies.
Olive trees over a thousand years old, still bearing fruit.
Swimming in the turquoise sea.
Painting just for the pleasure of yellow ochre against sapphire blue.

All of it restored me.

My cells plumped up.
I started sending green shoots back toward the sun.

When I came home, I was someone with life force again.

Since then, I’ve made this part of my life.

Yes—a Greek island, if I can.
Yes—painting, wildflowers.

But more than that:

Birdsong.
Rest.
Quiet.
Sunlight.
Color.

Because plump cells are important.

Being a plant with water and sunlight is not indulgence.

It’s practical.

We so often live in dark corners, without enough water, and then say:
Something is wrong with me.

No.

There’s nothing wrong with the plant.

It just needs water.
Sunlight.
Maybe shade.
Maybe a breeze.

We forget this.

We try to be machines.

We’re not.

Some of us are sunflowers.
Some of us are cactus.
Some of us are olive trees.

And some of us are ferns.

Ferns don’t bloom loudly in the sun.
They unfurl quietly, slowly, in the dappled light of the forest floor.

You might not notice them at first.

But wow—they are magnificent.

You, my loves, are magnificent.

So if you can—care for your tender selves in the ways you actually need.

Not in the ways you think you should need.