I am walking on Sahara with waterskin
I am walking on the Desert With a Waterskin
I once imagined myself walking through the Sahara. Not as a tourist with a camera, but as a wanderer, carrying nothing but a waterskin. The sun overhead was relentless, the sand endless, the air heavy with silence. Every step felt like it could be the last—yet in my hand, I held water. And that water wasn’t just water. It was love.
That waterskin is the symbol of my life. The path I walk is scattered with obstacles—moments of exhaustion, despair, and doubt—but the water inside keeps me moving. That water comes from the wellspring of my parents’ love, their compassion, their quiet strength, and from the rare friends who walk beside me with sincerity and courage.
The Desert We All Walk
Every person alive knows something about deserts. Not necessarily the Sahara, but the deserts of life—loneliness, grief, financial struggles, illness, heartbreak. Deserts can take many shapes, yet they all share the same essence: they test us. They strip us down until all that remains is our will to go forward.
But here’s the truth: no one survives a desert alone.
Across cultures, this lesson echoes. The Japanese haiku often finds resilience in fragile images: a lone plum blossom blooming in late snow, reminding us that even in harshness, beauty survives. In Africa, a proverb says, “Rivers never drink their own water,” teaching us that strength exists to be shared. And in the Middle East, dates and water sustain desert travelers—small gifts that carry immeasurable weight.
These wisdoms remind us: deserts are real, but so is endurance.
My Waterskin
When I stumble, I hear my parents’ voices, reminding me of who I am and what I carry. They gave me not just life, but resilience—the invisible water that revives my strength when it feels like I can’t go on.
When the heat presses down and I wonder if I can keep walking, a few sincere, strong-minded friends share their shade with me. They remind me that even in a desert, laughter is possible, and hope is not just a mirage.
It is their love, compassion, and strength that fills my waterskin. It may not make the desert disappear, but it makes the journey survivable, even meaningful.
A Universal Truth
You may not be walking through Sahara sands, but perhaps you’re walking through the desert of uncertainty, grief, or self-doubt. If you have a waterskin—even half-full—you have what you need to go on.
Think of the Tibetan sand mandala—created grain by grain, only to be swept away. Its beauty lies not in permanence, but in the strength to begin again. Think of autumn leaves in New England—fiery, fleeting, reminding us that even endings can be radiant.
Your water may come from a parent’s love, a friend’s faith, a teacher’s wisdom, or even your own stubborn courage. Whatever its source, guard it. Cherish it. Sip from it when the road feels endless.
Because the desert has one lesson for all of us: we cannot choose the heat, the storms, or the obstacles—but we can choose what we carry.
Closing Reflection
I walked on the desert with a waterskin. The journey is not easy, but it is alive with meaning because I am not walking empty-handed. I am carrying the love of those who believe in me.
And maybe you, too, are walking with a waterskin. If so, hold it close. Drink when you must. And remember: in the vast silence of life’s deserts, it is not the sand that defines us—but the water we carry.
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