The children play in the yard while you wash vegetables and cook, water readily available.

The children play in the yard while you wash vegetables and cook, water readily available.

Summer evenings are the most comfortable time of day. The sun isn't so harsh, and the yard is shady. Children run around, chasing chickens, splashing in puddles, laughing heartily. You move a small stool to the eaves, a basin of freshly picked vegetables beside you, and the tap gurgles open.

Water is right at your fingertips. No need to fetch from the well, no need to borrow from others, no need to carefully calculate its use. Wash once, then wash again, using as much water as you want. The children run over, reaching for water to play with; you let them, there's always enough. The vegetables are washed clean, the meal is almost ready, the setting sun shines on the yard, on the children, and on the vegetables in your hands.

It wasn't always like this. Before, washing vegetables required careful calculation; a basin of water used for washing vegetables had to be saved for watering the plants; before, you had to call out to the children playing with water, "Don't waste water, the water tank is almost empty!" Back then, water wasn't readily available; it was in a well miles away, in the village cistern, or on your carrying pole. A distant water source meant a tighter budget; a distant water source meant a weary heart.

Now, water is right at your fingertips. You sit in the yard, washing vegetables while watching the children play. Chickens peck at their food, the dog lies at your feet, and the wind blows through the yard, carrying the scent of earth and vegetable leaves. Suddenly, you realize, this is what life is all about—no more worry about water, no more anxiety; no more anxiety, no more comfort.

The children play in the yard while you wash vegetables and cook—water is always at your fingertips. From this day forward, this scene won't be occasional; it will be every day.