As a fun experiment, I’ve recorded myself reading this essay. Listen below—in three parts—or simply scroll down to read.
Last spring, before I headed to the trailhead of the 800-mile Arizona Trail I was about to thru-hike, I loaded up my water supply to full capacity: 6 liters.
I wasn’t sure what water sources would be like nor how frequently I’d come across them, so I wanted to err on the safe side.
Four of those liters were easily accessible while hiking: two gatorade bottles and two smart water bottles.
The other two liters were stored in a Platypus—a clear, flexible water container—which lived deep in the back of my pack. It was not easily accessible while hiking, and in my mind I thought of it as my “emergency water.” Just in case.
After the first two days, I’d crossed enough flowing streams to know that two liters of emergency water was overkill. There was no reason to be carrying all of this dead weight!
So I drank a liter, and kept just one liter of emergency water in the 2L Platypus.
Then back into the bottom of my pack it went, and that’s exactly where it remained.
Mile after mile, sunset after sunset.
As I settled into my daily routine on trail, I gained confidence, strength, and comfort.
I also quickly fell into the habit of filling up all four liters at good water sources, even if just one or two would have sufficed for the rest of that day. If there was water, I filled up.
Which is to say, I never ran out of water.
There was always enough.
There was always more than enough.
But I still kept that emergency liter in my pack.
Mile after mile, sunset after sunset.
I liked the additional comfort it gave me—on top of the 4L of comfort I was already carrying most of the time.
As days went on, I did become increasingly aware of the fact that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t really need this liter. Perhaps.
So one day, beyond the halfway point of the hike (over 400 miles in!), I decided that when I got into town the following day, I would ditch that extra liter. By this point I was out of the desert section of the trail, and since I’d never needed it during those driest, hottest sections, I wouldn’t need it for the remainder of the hike.
I was committed, I was sure: Tomorrow, I would drink that emergency liter.
That afternoon, with an hour or so of hiking left until I would look for a place to camp, I stopped to pee.
There was a tall rock to the side of the trail, so I dropped my pack on the raised surface and peed behind a tree.
As I readjusted and began to put my pack on again, I noticed the bottom was wet.
Awww, no.
Ohhh, yes.
I quickly pulled out the contents of my bag—food bag, second food bag, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, tent—until I reached the Platypus.
The never-drunk-out-of, brand-spankin-new Platypus had a hole, and was nearly empty.
None of my belongings were horribly wet, and the pack would dry in the sun the following day.
I could only laugh at the timing of all of this.
It didn’t matter that I’d decided to drink it once and for all the following day.
It didn’t matter that I’d recognized my habit of hoarding for peace of mind.
Nope, apparently the Universe couldn’t wait another minute to drill this lesson into me:
YOU DON’T NEED THIS WATER!
Trust there is enough.
Think of all the caches in the desert that you never took from—because you had enough.
Think of all the times you arrived at the next water source with 2-3 full liters still on you. You had enough.
The rivers are flowing.
Set down your safety net and start trusting; you don’t need this.
You have enough.
You have more than enough.
***
That fall, while deep in grief, I bought my first vehicle as an adult. It is a manual, so I had to learn to drive stick.
Back when I drove more frequently in high school, I quickly recognized my biggest fear with driving was an irrational one: running out of gas. To prevent this feared situation from happening, I’d simply never let the tank reach a quarter. When it dipped below half, I’d go fill up. Voila, peace of mind.
So here I am, driving across Kansas in the middle of another grief wave with very little energy, getting used to my new-to-me ’07 Honda Element on Day 4 of a cross-country drive.
I pass a sign: No services for 58 miles.
I glance down at my gas gauge and current mileage, do some quick calculating, and decide I can make it. I can make that no problem. You’re always filling up here and there, I tell myself, let’s just trust and go.
As I’m driving, I notice the needle declining faster than I thought it would.
Then again, we’re going 75 miles an hour and there are hills.
It’s fine, it’s fine, nothing to worry about.
I keep driving.
I can’t possibly run out; that doesn’t actually happen, does it?
I continue to drive, but the gauge keeps dropping—and far too quickly for my liking.
Eventually I pass a sign telling me the next town is 13 miles away.
Thirteen miles, we can do that. (Can’t we?)
I glance down at my fuel gauge. The needle is practically on E, and to my horror, I see that my empty light has turned on.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Why didn’t I just fill up at the last town?
Come on, Elereen, I coax my SUV, you can do it.
Come on, come on.
Elereen got her name by pushing together the words “Element” and “Eireen.” Eireen is a Greek goddess of Peace, and is featured on a card in my deck of goddess guidance oracle cards.
Her message? “There is no need to worry, as everything is working out beautifully.”
Okay, Eireen, I’m trying to believe you.
I begin to sweat, as I watch the miles slowly tick up on my odometer.
How far can a tank carry you when the empty light goes on, anyway? I have no idea.
All I know is I do not want to deal with walking however many miles into a town and getting gas. (How do you even do that? I might soon have to figure it out!)
Please, please, please, please, please, I beg.
Ugh, this is exactly why I prefer to “play it safe,” to avoid situations like these!
Please just get me to the next town, please please please.
And then, up ahead in the distance, I see my exit sign.
This is okay. If I run out here, I can at least see the gas station I’ll have to walk to. This is just fine.
I begin to exhale.
I make it further along, until suddenly I’m taking the exit, then I’m turning onto the main drag, and now I’m pulling into the first gas station I see.
We made it.
Thank goodness.
(But I am never playing it that close again!)
So I fill up all the way, and for the rest of the trip, when in doubt, I fill up.
***
This February, I decided to participate in my own version of a “February Freeze.” I would intentionally eat out of my cupboards, not spend money on non-essentials, and generally use up the resources I had here in my home, rather than seeking something new and exciting. (Mainly, this meant reading the books and magazines I’d brought out west with me, rather than checking out books that caught my eye at the library.)
So I cooked and baked and emptied my freezer, ate through the pantry.
I still borrowed DVDs from the library during that time, though, and ended up watching lots of movies instead of reading out my bookshelf like I’d imagined.
Then my housemate moved out the first week of March.
The house felt bare without her belongings. The bathroom lost its bright, cheery cactus shower curtain and both rugs, the plants were gone from the kitchen, and her parting left me in search of a few household basics: a tea kettle, a cutting knife, a can opener, and a frying pan.
Two weeks later, a good friend of mine started packing up his house in preparation for his own move out the following week. I inherited several of his belongings, among them, a tea kettle!
On my friend’s last day of work, we interns were lent out to the housing unit of our maintenance department. We began cleaning the unoccupied houses on our street, and continued over the next couple of work days. Since it’s seasonal housing, items left behind move freely from house to house, occupant to occupant.
From these unoccupied houses, my house inherited:
-a sharp cutting knife!
-a can opener!
-a frying pan!
-a bright shower curtain!
-a bright shower mat!
There was so much more that I didn’t take, because I didn’t need it. We have more than enough here. I am fully provided for, and for that I’m grateful.
About this time, mid-March, grocery stores suddenly became virus-hopping buckets of panic and empty shelves.
Shoot, if only I had all those meals I’d made and frozen, but eaten last month…
Shoot, if only I didn’t have to restock my pantry…
And then our library closed.
Whelp. No more books (besides the four I had checked out). No more DVDs (besides the eight I had checked out).
I’d had the intention to use up what I had back in February, but Universe is no fool. She marched in and said, “Nope, look how conservative you were! You didn’t even get a start on your bookshelf. Now really, open your eyes. LOOK at how much you have. I’ll give you another chance to see. I’m providing for you!”
***
I’ve been seeing these little lessons emerge for over a year now.
For over a year, the idea of scarcity/abundance has been on the peripheral, my mind noticing and collecting these moments as they arose.
I began to see a pattern.
And as if the examples themselves weren’t enough (and there were many more than what I shared here; there were plenty!), my goddess guidance cards hit the message home.
Each January I turn over a spread of goddess cards, one for each month of the new year. I jot them down in my notebook, and as I approach each new month, I’ll look back to see which guiding card I’d picked.
Last week, I flipped to that particular page to see which card I’d picked for April.
The card?
Sedna: Inuit Eskimo of infinite supply
Her message?
“You are supplied for today and all of your tomorrows.”
***
Today, April 8, I’m on my last library book that I’d checked out before our branch closed on March 26. I still have more than enough reading material on my shelf to get me through my final month here. There is plenty to read.
I have two unwatched movies remaining from my library DVDs, and then I can try swapping DVDs with the handful of folks who live on my street, or simply continue on without movies (podcasts, ukulele, painting, writing, hiking, reading). There is plenty to keep me engaged.
Another friend is moving out on Friday, so earlier today she gave me a huge box of food she won’t be able to finish. There is plenty to eat.
And I’ll have no trouble storing, cooking, and consuming this food, because I have a functional kitchen with all of the basics. There is plenty to use.
I had a seasonal job lined up for summer, but now it’s very much up in the air.
To stay deep-rooted and calm, I’m practicing leaning into what I’ve so patiently been taught over and over again this past year:
There is plenty—so use what you have.
The Universe provides.
You are supplied for today and all of your tomorrows.
You are supplied for today and all of your tomorrows.
You are supplied for today and all of your tomorrows.