my water bottle: a love letter
Hello you,
I am writing to you from Arizona, poolside, right now. I’m feeling blissfully lucky surrounded by pencil cacti and lemon trees on this cloudless, 84° day. On Wednesday evening, my favorite travel buddy, Jordan, and I headed west to hike the Grand Canyon. We spent the previous seven weeks planning for our trek from the South Rim to the North Rim and back again, because the best way to experience grandeur in the world is on foot with no windows interrupting the space between your eyes and the world around you.
I want to tell you all about it another time. Really, I do, but the more pressing, more relevant story is the one of my water bottle. It is one of of detachment, of exigency, of kindness. It is a story that, in today’s languorous times, revitalizes my faith in humanity.
It is also a little ridiculous.
My water bottle turned five in March. This isn’t a date I have circled on the calendar, nor is it one deemed worthy of a birthday cake (I’m not ridiculous - at least not in that way), but it’s one that is seared into my brain because I purchased it on the first day of my first 300 hour teacher training in Colorado. It’s clunky and topographical from years of tossing it around. It is grass-green, decorated simply with a single Runners of the Wild sticker of unmatched resiliency. To know me is to know my water bottle, which is to say that if you’ve seen me in real life, you’ve also seen it lurking nearby.
Our relationship nearly ended today.
You see, part of this trip included spending some time with another dear friend and fellow yoga teacher, Kathryn, who lives part-time in Phoenix while she prepares to begin law school, and she recently discovered a studio near her home. Her, in need of movement, and I, in need of muscular relief, decided to catch the mid-morning class. It was powerful and sweaty, leaving us in the covetous state of energetically nourished and physically starving. We rolled up our mats, caught our breath, and made our way to Gooder Goods a few blocks over.
It is a soulful place, where the staff befriends the customers and the menu was clearly curated to make us all feel good. We lingered over salads and conversation before stopping at the counter for snacks to go. It was there I met Allister, a charming young man with a British accent and great hair. I’m not sure what his role at Gooder Goods is, other than being the type of employee who is decidedly gooder than good.
Kathryn and I paid and made our way home. She had work later, we had a plane to catch, and all of us wanted to hit the pause button by the pool for a bit. It was in that moment - the one just after we walked inside her home to gather suits and towels - that I felt a jolt of panic. I grabbed my phone, and a few seconds later, the charming young man with a British accent and great hair greeted me. I was only a few words into my explanation before he broke it with “A green hydro-flask? We have it right here!” I asked him to put Kathryn’s name on it so she could snag it on her next trek in. My chances of getting it back had just increased, but I knew to keep my expectations low.
I didn’t realize I was so attached to this sullied water bottle. How curious.
I was thinking this as I sprawled across the lounge chair, a few minutes ago, when Kathryn appears, endearingly enthusiastic. She very nearly always is, really, but this time it was situationally specific. She has just come from the shower, where it occurred to her that we could Postmates something from Gooder Goods and have them stuff the water bottle into the bag.
Don’t all the best ideas happen in the shower?
Jordan is hungry, anyway, and since I refuse to buy single-use water bottles, I really would like to have mine for the plane. So, we do it. And then we while away the time with benign chatter and intermittent laughing fits. Just before 2pm - when Gooder Goods closes - Postmates notifies Jordan that her order has been canceled. Confused, she calls the restaurant, and he has her try another service. He’s already made her avocado toast, after all, and he wants us both to have our things. Allister takes his role in the service industry seriously. She tries several - all to no avail - and calls him back to let him know and pay for the toast.
As she’s talking with him, I’ve launched into a non-attachment rhetoric with Kathryn, tossing about phrases like ‘letting go’ and ‘nugatory’ and ‘aparigraha’ (Sanskrit for non-attachment) when Jordan covers the mouth piece of her phone, juts her head toward us, and talk-whispers “Kathryn, what’s your address?”
Undeterred by Jordan’s protests (by all of our protests), the charming young man with a British accent and great hair has confirmed that he will be here before 3:30, toast and grass-green water bottle in hand.
Sweet man did it. Thank you, Allister.
My lesson in non-attachment evolved into a reminder that great kindness (ahimsa for my yogis out there) still exists in little and big ways, and I didn’t have to drink from the airport water fountain.
With love always,
Adi & her water bottle
p.s. I’d say this even if Allister didn’t go above and beyond for us: if you’re in Phoenix, swing by Gooder Goods. It is an absolute gem, and the people there are solid gold.
