An internal ache. Same as when I threw my body, rocking self to sleep as a child. An awareness that tangible physical reality can’t touch the deep heart of me. Propped on a pillow as a teenager I searched books. Of men praying peyote prayers that held no hope. Some self-proclaimed prophets with poetic prose that increased hunger but provided no spiritual bread.
The foray into the spiritual oft meets with meditation. Trying
to connect with the jumbled perception of who I thought God was. Damaged and
trying to get repaired. Unaware of that at the time. Sitting in quiet with
crucifix as focus. A short phase that brought me no closer to satisfaction. Understanding
crashed in later.
Driving through the canyon, to find solace at the ocean. How strange to find comfort in that contrast between a sea so immense and self so small. For You fit the oceans into the palm of your hand and hold heaven in Your fingers. Those same years taking long walks on the track at a local college. Praying as Canadian geese fly overhead. Prayer soaring, prayer heard.
There will always be this hurt for heaven. “Hunger stays,” as
the song goes. Bodies ache for water. The hidden face of God is normative in
season and circumstance. “I stretch out my hands to you; My soul longs for You,
as a parched land.” The spiritual and mystical need not be cracking hard soil. We
are promised streams in the desert. Lovingkindness whispers to us in the morning.
There is always a deep dryness. It can forever be filled from an everlasting
fountain.
