My friend gave me that song years ago, and I’ve felt it in different ways, at different times, and these days it’s a song I find I am listening to on repeat. When driving to the Massai Village this past Thursday I realized it’s drives like these that I dont think I’ll ever be able to explain with words. That its drives like these that are moving slowly, fumbling, into the places of my heart that havent seen light in a while. With the grace that is walking in the dark, placing your hands out to meet surface and walls, and walking far enough to know that you could set your hands down…you could.
You could give up that grace means standing solidly in the answers, that strength means you only look forward, that home is made up of remembering times when, that love is confirmed in a language that is shared, that you are alone, you could give all of that up…you could.
You could throw your head back to catch some sun, you could gaze over to your right and see that the person beside you is doing the same, because sunlight on your face feels. good. You could join into a song in which the words are sounds crossing over your lips for the first time, forming the connection not in comprehension but in trying. You could sing loud, off-key, and joy-filled. You could forget, or maybe it’s that you remember that it’s not about the words…it never was. You forget, you remember.
You could try to make sense of what you see, solid explanations that mean that what you saw today does not find it’s way into your dreams tonight. Or you could dream…couldnt you? And when you close your eyes at night you could meet the edge of rest and awarness and not be afraid, for what you see in the landscapes of your dreams is worth feeling. You could feel it all.
You could hold little little hands, and gaze down to meet yourself. You could be honest enough to know that these little hands, and curious gazes, and the hunger for more, startle you into the same small hands and gaze you held yourself a day so long ago. And so brilliantly you get to meet yourself, and smile warmly, and no, there are no guarantees, but in every moment you get to be the connection, or you get to be the person that looks away. You get to reach into your bag, and produce a small orange when those little hands open and ask is there anything you could do. And though your belly has never known hunger like this, you dont look away. You look to. You look in.
You could stop longing for home, if you decide that you already there.
You could listen. Just listen.
You could surrender.
And when a small tub of water is offered over your hands, so that you may be washed by the water, to eat a meal that was cooked over a slow flame, tended by a woman who’s soft warm gaze meets you, she, dressed in colors that remind you of a slow, moving, soothing fire: as together you stand on a dirt floor. You think less of if there is enough water…what if your hands use it all? Knowing that if your thoughts are always on is there enough, there will never be enough.
You step into the abundance of cool water running across your palms and smile gratefully. And letting what you can offer, be offered also as a steady flow, knowing that of circumstance and not justice, there are times where there is not enough water. But that we are all responsible for the flow of something…what have you got to give? And would you. Would you.
I am washed by the water…