It’s summertime, and the intense brightness and heat of the tropical sun is getting unbearable. Waves of heat rise up everywhere, met by scorching, fiery rays beating down from the cloudless sky. I’m glad to be inside, and even more grateful for my new belonging, a black earthen clay pot.
The black clay pot sits calmly, cooling drinking water singlemindedly. It makes no rumbling noises, the way my refrigerator tends to do so, seeking my attention, reminding me of its presence and how hard it is working.
Not this pot. It goes about its business without fuss. When I remove the cover to dip my glass for some water, it doesn’t flash a big light, nor does it gurgle a new sound. It lets me dip the glass, as many times as I want. The water settles back to stillness when I’m done. It is simply there.
Perhaps that’s why the water tastes different, better. The coolness seems infused into each molecule, a mindful union so that every drop is refreshing. Refrigerator water is not like this; it feels like coolness has been thrust on to the water, imposed on it to force the water to change. It’s an imposter.
My black clay pot has a cooling effect on my soul too. It reminds me of the virtues of just sitting there.