Gente que Cuenta

The jug,
by Leonor Henríquez

Regadera de jardin Atril press
“I never know if I water my plants too much or too little, but I am sure that I do it with great hope that they will survive me…”

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      The day to plant flowers has arrived.

On May 20, “Victoria Day”, spring is formally inaugurated in Calgary, and we all go out to the garden, after a long winter, this year, also, with a persistent drought.

I made my purchase of cheerful pansies, azaleas, dahlias and planted them in the pots in the entrance of my house and on the patio.

It was time to water them, and I went for the garden jug. I never know if I water my plants too much or too little, but I am sure that I do it with great hope that they will survive me.

That’s when I remembered two contradictory readings that came to me recently in a couple of books I bought at the airport, just to distract myself during the long wait.

The first one talked about that unfortunate tendency, exaltation of the ego (not that I am free of sin, my ego is quite robust), but this author insisted that we must fill ourselves with oneself (Self) to be able to give, because “you can’t pour from an empty jug.” I couldn’t continue reading.

The second book said the complete opposite and even taught me a new word, kenosis (from the Greek, emptying) and cited many ancient philosophies, based on the liberation of the self, of the ego, to be able to give.

Anyway, with these reflections I sat next to my still empty watering can, to contemplate my garden, grateful for the bright greens that spring brings and feeling the fullness of my newly sown joy that fills my patio with colors.

In the middle of these thoughts, it began to rain.

The long-awaited fresh, restorative rain full of good omens finally appeared.

There I was, soaked.

My jug filled itself with that sweet downpour.

Conclusion, I will not buy books at the airport anymore.

www.atril .press Leonor Henríquez e1670869356570

Leonor Henríquez (Caracas, Venezuela) Civil Engineer by training (UCAB 1985), writer and apprentice poet by vocation. From her time in engineering emerged her Office Stories (1997), another way of seeing the corporate world. Her latest publications include reflections on grief, Hopecrumbs (2020) ( and “The Adventures of Chispita” (2021) ( an allegory of life inside Mom’s belly.
Today she shares her “impulsive meditations” from Calgary, Canada, where she lives.

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