The Cure For That Deep Dry Ache

                                                        Photo by Nikolay Dukov on Unsplash

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.

The Taste Of Water

The child drinking from sippy cup to the Guatemalan woman walking miles, we all have experienced it. The taste of water. A stop on the John Muir trail, the first place I remember. Snowmelt. Good water. I liked water from that green garden hose. This was better. Brighter than bottled. How to explain the taste of water? Start with the negative? What water isn’t? Quantify it? Add in cold. We always say, ‘cold and clear.’ Is clear a flavor note?

My uncle built a house in California gold country. Water from a well. Chill water flowing up from rock and river, igneous, slate and marble. Satisfying and creating thirst. You can’t imagine. Unless you’ve gone without, climbed a mountain, chopped a cord of wood, sweat salt-white dripping into your eyes. Now you can taste it. Almost.

The smell of water after it splashes the pavement. Music spills out of courts and corners, tangible and ubiquitous. Thousands coming for the festival; Sukkot, ‘the season of our joy.’ Children scamper, adults meander, wall to wall they fill walkways. On a high point in the courtyard a man stands and cries out, “If anyone is thirsty I will give you drink!”

A crowd forms around the man. Where is his hat for tips? What magic will he do? A mother walks by, father and children in tow; they’re hungry and must be fed. A man from the beach city slows, “Finally repayment for my taxes!” Some come thirsty. That man’s voice cries out again, distinct. The music has hushed. His cry elicits their response, “Oh give us this water!”

Water gives life and water kills. Well water is great but not if it’s high in Chromium-6. River water taste great but may hide Giardia. Water’s flavor depends on where the water comes from. If you get water from a well, it might have a slightly mineral or chalky taste because it’s passed through layers of limestone deep underground. Water will temporarily slake thirst. There’s water that’ll put you together when you’re broken, that gives sight to the blind then splashes out in an everlasting stream. That’s some good water. We are the crowd. We are the entitled. Oh Rabbi, give us this water!