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.

A Tunnel Between Two Gardens

“I remember the days of old; I meditate on all Your accomplishments;
I reflect on the work of Your hands. I spread out my hands to You;
My soul longs for You, like a weary land. Selah.”

Tapping me on the shoulder, Google photo whispers, “Perspective, perspective.” “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread,” Bilbo says. A good description of the feeling these days. A new prescription is necessary for this short-sightedness. Like a person hiking through a tunnel between two gardens; I forget the beauty behind and the glories ahead.

My wife was exhausted. Caring for her mom 24/7. It was time for our traditional 3- day getaway. With guilt and relief, we left her mom in the care of her brother. Sipping Stone Brewing’s Berliner Weiss we were no longer in So Cal. The air is hot and the cobblestones vibrate as heat radiates upward. Aside from the Rhine the only place that looks cool is beneath the umbrellas. The girl in the dirndl dress brings you a stein. That first sip… Then you realize the tour guide has moved on to the next beer in the flight.

Rioting, looting, a global pandemic, school closures and day-to-day stressors had us ready for a road-trip come summer of 2020. It’s California; the only way to book a hotel is as an ‘essential worker.’ We head to Arizona. There I sit on a wood park bench facing Whiskey Row. Book in hand, I stretch out on that lazy summer evening. Reading, resting and intermittently watching a lightning storm shoot across the sky.

The lightning flashes fade too easily. The brushing breeze, the soul-rest and the wonder are forgotten. A dry space inside the tunnel. A parched place, a weary land. The call is to remember that this moment in it’s weariness (oh, wastefulness) is momentary. We have those snapshots from both sides of the tunnel. The marvels that were and the glories to follow.