Finding the Rhythm of Water Conservation

As I sit at my kitchen table, typing out this first sentence, rain taps against the windows. It is my favorite kind of white noise– loud enough to fill the silence, but quiet enough to let me hear my own thoughts. The rhythm is comforting. I find that all water has a rhythm to it, one that adapts to each surrounding. The drumming of rain on the roof will become a slow, steady trickle from the gutters by tomorrow morning. This rain melts the snow that fell last weekend, the  pattern of which was a barely audible sprinkle that later piled to make my footsteps crunch, a rhythm that will forever remind me of carefree snow days in elementary school. Maybe this water will even collect and form a puddle, and each drop will create a symmetrical ripple. I know that in the coming months, spring rainfall will flood my driveway, creating an obstacle course as I establish my own rhythm while jumping to avoid the small pools that form on the concrete. I know that in the summer, I will rush from this driveway to the garage door, my outdoor time having been cut short by a sudden storm of rain, thunder, and lightning. I have no control when the rain, or snow, or sleet, or fog will come. Yet, for all its unpredictability, I have trust in the cycle. I hope for the same rhythms that have defined my childhood, because with each familiar rainfall, a memory of me and my sister kicking puddle water at each other emerges. 

My sneakers are by the door, still wet with muddy water from a hike at Gedney Park. The highlight of the hike was standing on top of a rock formation with my friend, where she pointed to a small waterfall between the trees. I had to squint and bend my head to find it, but once I saw it, I was immediately aware of its presence. That water is what makes land supportive of life, a reminder that for all of our differences we can identify with a common source. It also signifies the power and stories in places that we often overlook. For me, this was Buttonhook Forest. I’d spent twelve years in Chappaqua and knew it in name only before attending an informational meeting. Its presence, much like that of the waterfall, struck me immediately. Much like the water that runs through it, the forest carries memories and stories. As the water of Buttonhook forest continues its rhythm, I now realize that I have the opportunity to find mine. 

I pick up the glass of water beside me and walk over to the sink, watching water rush from the faucet for a few seconds. I do this probably a dozen times a day  – it’s never occurred to me to count. I know that this is a privilege to not have to give a second thought to how much water I consume, to not worry about safety or contamination, to be only a couple of steps away from the sink that gives me a constant stream of clean water. There is a different type of rhythm to this: the whoosh of a sink, the swirl of water in the glass, the clinking of ice. It’s a rhythm that I get to control, for reasons that I don’t understand. I’ve seen the photos and the stories of  children hiking for hours to reach their nearest river. I’ve seen the charts and statistics about the depletion of the global fresh water supply. I don’t understand why I get to fill my glass, or take a daily shower, or put my clothes in a washing machine. I don’t understand why I get to control the rhythms of water while the water crisis leaves entire habitats in states of drought. And I don’t pretend to fully understand my place between conservation and the state of excess and constant availability that I get to enjoy. 

Instead of pretending to understand, I choose to find my own rhythm. One that combines optimism with critical thinking. I hope to find a way to use my place of privilege to spread awareness and understanding. I hope for the days that I will get caught up in a rainstorm, or read by a creek, or go swimming in the ocean. I hope that when those days come, I make the most of them and choose to live a life of gratitude and enthusiasm. Most of all, I hope to lead with positivity. And I hope that I will tell stories and create memories with others that inspire them to do the same. 

I do this because I hope that the rhythm of water will continue as long as girls like my sister and I will play in puddles. So that there is always the sound of a wave crashing while people walk along the shoreline. So that there is always a waterfall hidden in a forest, waiting to be discovered. So that rain will dance on the ground and feed flowers and drip from leaves, and so that this rain will have protected places to collect. These are the same rhythms of water that Earth’s prior inhabitants have listened to, that continue to circulate and rise and fall throughout the world. The rhythm of water has the remarkable ability to stay consistent or continue while adapting to its surroundings. I believe that the future of water protection lies in listening to this rhythm, in learning to grow and come to terms with our constant change in predicament. And if everyone can find their own rhythm, their stream of passion and connection to water, protection and conservation efforts will be successful.