Watering the Concrete

Why a steady drip of softness is the secret to lasting strength.

I’ve always wanted a pool. Always, always, always.

When I was six, my mom was going to marry a guy named Bob Morrison and we were going to move to San Antonio, Texas, and have a house with a pool. (And stairs…which I also considered trés fancy.) The wedding didn’t happen, and while I didn’t miss the man, the promise of a pool had been broken.

By elementary school, I was spending entire summers at the neighborhood pool, or “The Pool,” as we called it.

I’d leave in the morning with a ratty towel and enough change to buy a Cherry Coke and a Nutty Buddy from the vending machine. A group of us would gather on the deck, our Coppertone-drenched skin frying softly in the sun. The teenage lifeguard was the only accepted authority figure. It was the Gen X equivalent of summer camp.

The pool was a place of belonging. Of casual joy. A place where the disparate tribes of my young life gathered and relationships grew.

Now, after decades of longing, I am finally getting my own pool. Right in my own backyard.

The rebar shell ready for the Shotcrete. The other material used is called Gunite. Shotcrete is said to last longer. I know too much about pool material now.

Last week, after much digging and prepping, the concrete shell was poured. It was a big day, with multiple workers and heavy equipment and hoses blasting out steady streams of ash-colored putty. Within hours, the rebar skeleton assumed the muscular contours of a 55-foot lap pool.

Once it was done, I was told it was my job to water the concrete, twice a day, for the next ten days. So I’ve been dutifully tending to my own grey garden in what I have since learned is called “wet curing.”

Watering concrete is like watering a flowerbed, except you’re dousing what looks like a concave fortress. As I stand with hose in hand, I have time to ponder why I must water something that already seems so strong, so formally established. After all, I can walk along the walls. My dogs have already scampered down the steps, leaving their paw prints on the curved bottom of what will soon be my pool.

To look at it, you would never guess it needed anything. But without the water, it will weaken and crack. At least in the beginning, while the agitated molecules of cement, sand, and gravel are still seeking a place to settle.

Even the toughest things require softness to stay strong.

This crew had three brothers working in it. Every guy involved in the actual work of building of my pool has been Mexican and they have been unfailingly awesome.

So I’ve been thinking about how stuff that looks solid will crack without tending. And how strange it feels to be watering concrete like flowers—not to sprout, but to remain in the shape asked of it. Fissures unformed don’t reward in the way of buds in bloom. I am nurturing the invisible growth of enduring strength.

Too often, we pour our love and energy and attention into the mold of our lives, molds we have spent years building out of our own dreams and desires. We construct them carefully, elaborating on the design, removing the elements that no longer serve. And when we finally feel the framework is in place, we pour and pour. We do our best to set our vision into stone.

And then…we neglect to water the concrete.

We get busy. We have setbacks. We make the mistake of assuming someone will water it for us. We forget that the absence of pliancy leaves things prone to fracture. What was solid weakens. And, eventually, what was whole, breaks.

Now that I’m in my 50s, I can look back at the cracked, untended concrete of my own life. The times I should have watered, but didn’t. The times I desperately wanted someone else to do the watering for me. The times when I watered, but it just didn’t sink in. The times when the job felt like my sole responsibility and the hose was too heavy to carry.

On the incredibly small chance you’re not following the metaphor, the concrete is our relationships: with our friends, family, lovers, children, ourselves.

My current garden. Watering it has been meditative and also subtly stressful—I don’t want to let it break.

In my life, and probably yours, there’s a good chance some things are cracked beyond repair, regardless of how long they lasted and how strong they seemed. Because with relationships, the concrete never dries. Not entirely. And the process of “wet curing” is ongoing. There is no such thing as settled.

So my unsolicited, and admittedly obvious, advice is to just water the damned concrete. Soak it in appreciation. If a crack appears, flood it with understanding or amends—whatever softness you can offer. If your well feels dry, say something. In a drought, a few deliberate drops can make all the difference.

You probably already know this. Tending to what is important is not a new concept. But, honestly, how many of us have let something fall apart because we were unable to soften to its needs? So accept this as a public service announcement from someone who is literally, and figuratively, doing her best to water the concrete of her own rebuilt life. Now complete with a pool.