For anyone who has ever maintained a pool, you will grasp this metaphor immediately. For anyone who hasn’t, let me paint you a picture.

A pool is not something you can just fill with water and then jump into anytime you want. You can’t, for instance, wait a week or two and then expect to step into nice, clear, blue, refreshing water.

No — what you will find in this instance is a green, slimy, bug-infested swamp.

It doesn’t happen all at once. On day one, the water still looks fine. By day three, there’s a faint cloudiness. By day five, a slick film forms on the walls. Before long, the transformation is complete — and the water is no longer something you want to touch, let alone dive into.

And here’s the thing: bringing it back from that state is possible — but it takes more time, more work, and more resources than keeping it clear in the first place.

It’s easy to shrug off — “I’ll get to it later.” But later always costs more.

When the green takes over, it doesn’t just make the water ugly. It changes it. The smell is different. The feel on your skin is different. It’s no longer a place you want to be.

And the thing is — while you were busy, things were happening. Growth was happening. But not the kind you wanted. Algae never sleeps. Debris keeps falling. The filter keeps clogging whether you’re paying attention or not.

Well... it occurred to me that life is exactly like that, too.

Friendships.
Health.
Your own head and heart.
They don’t go bad overnight. They go bad slowly, while you’re distracted, while you’re telling yourself you’ll deal with it soon.

We all have “pools” to maintain — our health, our relationships, our work, our peace of mind. And in each one, the signs of neglect don’t always show right away.

Maybe you stop checking in with a friend because you’re both busy. No big deal — until one day you realize you’ve gone half a year without speaking, and the ease between you is gone.

Maybe you skip a few walks, grab quick meals, stay up too late — and suddenly you’re winded on the stairs and can’t remember the last time you woke up feeling rested.

Maybe you ignore the heaviness in your chest because there’s no time for feelings right now — until it swells into something that colors every interaction and makes joy feel out of reach.

Maybe you put off dealing with a small pain in your body because you don’t have the time — until it’s bad enough to keep you up all night.

Maybe you ignore that inner voice telling you you’re running on empty, because you can “push through” — until you’re so burned out that you just shut down.

I’ve let things go green before. Not because I didn’t care, but because I thought I could get away with neglect. That I could come back later and it would be the same. It never is.

It’s all the same pattern: little things left untended grow into big things that demand your full attention. The green doesn’t arrive overnight, but it always arrives if you stop caring for the water.

You can fix a pool that’s gone green. You can repair a relationship, heal your body, tend to your mind. But it’s harder. It takes longer. And sometimes, even when it’s clear again, there’s a faint stain on the plaster — a reminder of what was.

So now, I try to tend to the water before it turns. Not because I’m disciplined or wise, but because I know the cost when I don’t. It’s not glamorous work. It’s not dramatic. It’s the kind of work no one sees — skimming leaves, testing the pH, adding just enough to keep it balanced.

And the truth is, I don’t manage to tend to it every day. Not the pool, and not my life. Some days I’m tired, distracted, or just don’t want to deal with it. And I pay for that.

But I’ve learned to notice sooner now. To catch the cloudiness before it becomes green. To admit when I’ve let something slip, and start again before the damage runs deep.

It’s not perfection. It’s not even consistency, some days. It’s just refusing to look away for too long.

In our tradition, there is tikkun — the work of repair. Not the illusion that things will never break, but the commitment to restore what has. Pools go green. Hearts grow cold. Connections fray.

The Creator gave us the capacity to bring things back — to pull the leaves from the water, to scrub the walls clean, to choose life and clarity again.

And maybe that’s the point: not that we keep the water perfect, but that we keep returning to the work of repair, because the water — and the life it reflects — is worth it.

Amen.