Until the Water Ran Clear

What's on my mind?

“No one is going to believe this.”

That was my first thought when I placed the two glasses next to each other.

Both contained water from the same well at my shop. The first was taken directly from the hydrant before any filtration. It looked like classic Iowa well water—orange, cloudy, and full of visible iron.

The second had passed through a filtration system I built myself.

It was clear.

I thought the system would work. I hoped it would work. But I had never built anything like it, and I had never watched this kind of filtration happen with my own eyes.

So when I saw those two glasses sitting next to each other, I felt something else, too.

Pride.

The laboratory may humble me soon enough. I’m sending both samples out for testing today because water that looks clear is not necessarily water that is suitable for what I need.

I don’t know what the results will show.

But the visual difference is hard to ignore.

It also represents several months of work that most people will never see.

More than one person has asked why I am spending so much time thinking about water.

After all, I’m working with worms, compost, rotten food, wood chips, soil, and lawns. Why would water require this much attention?

Because water is the base ingredient in nearly everything I do.

The long-term, microbially active compost I plan to make is approximately 60 to 70 percent water. The environment where I raise worms needs a similar moisture level. The liquid amendments I apply to lawns and landscapes are more than 90 percent water.

Nearly everything begins with water.

I couldn’t afford a large initial investment in a commercial filtration system. I also wasn’t sure I wanted the ongoing expense of replacement filters. Collecting enough rainwater may eventually be part of the solution, but I’m not equipped to do that yet.

So I looked for another way.

I found the work of a professor who had designed a four-barrel filtration system for places where conventional water treatment wasn’t practical. Water moved through progressively smaller rock, sand, and pyrolyzed charcoal.

The design relied on gravity instead of pumps.

I already had a 70-gallon food-grade barrel and the charcoal. What I needed was rock, sand, plumbing, planning—and time.

The time turned out to be the hardest part.

Because the system operates through gravity, the barrel’s overflow had to become the highest point in my shop. Once it was filled with approximately 600 pounds of material, it wasn’t going anywhere.

That meant I wanted every layer placed correctly the first time.

The most tedious part was washing 300 pounds of sand.

I could wash approximately 20 pounds at a time in a five-gallon bucket. I sprayed it with a hose, agitated it, dumped out the dirty water, and started again.

Rinse and repeat.

Literally.

I kept going until the water ran clear. Then I emptied the bucket and began again with the next 20 pounds.

It consumed nearly two days of whatever free time I could find. There were plenty of moments when I wanted to stop early. I considered washing each batch a little less. I considered deciding it was good enough.

Who would know?

Once the sand was buried inside the barrel, no one would ever see it again.

But I would know.

And if the system didn’t work, I would always wonder whether the problem was the design or one of the shortcuts I had taken while building it.

There is never enough time to do it right the first time.

There is always enough time to do it right the second time.

I have repeated that phrase to myself for years.

As I stood there washing sand, I also remembered something my cousin once told me about our grandfather. He remembered Grandpa saying:

“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”

I don’t like moving slowly.

I also don’t like doing things twice.

So I kept washing.

But somewhere in those hours, the lesson began to change.

I realized I was treating the time spent washing sand as time standing between me and the finished filter. It was something I needed to get through so I could return to the work that mattered.

But washing the sand was the work.

And those hours were my life, too.

I have been working with my therapist on being present. This moment—the one happening right now—is the only one I actually have. I can spend it worrying about the past. I can spend it fearing the future. I can rush through it while thinking about the next five things I need to accomplish.

Or I can be here.

That doesn’t mean every moment will be enjoyable. It means I can stop treating the difficult, repetitive, or inconvenient parts of my day as if they don’t count.

They count.

The two glasses show the result everyone can see.

They don’t show the months it took to finish the system. They don’t show 300 pounds of washed sand, 600 pounds of material lifted into a barrel, or all the moments when “good enough” would have been easier.

The lab results may tell me the system needs more work. They may tell me it filters the water far better than I need for worms and compost.

Right now, I honestly don’t know.

But I know I took the time to build it correctly.

My work at Iowa Worm Farm has a way of reminding me of things I already know but apparently need to learn again.

Slow down.

Stay present.

Do the work in front of you.

And stay with it until the water runs clear.