Bodies
of Water
When
I was going through divorce—the first time—and feeling down in the dumps, I
decided to read a Psalm every day and let it work whatever magic it could for
me.
I’ve
never been one to pray every day or read scripture on a regular basis other
than for work. I’ve heard of people reading the Bible cover to cover, and I’ve
seen guides for getting through all of scripture in a single year. But that
kind of regimen has never appealed to me; even when I used to keep a daily
diary I would eventually lose interest, usually in the late summer or autumn. Something about having to do it erased my wanting
to do it.
Why
I opted at my lowest ebb to take up an exhausting exercise I’ll never know. I
could’ve just as easily gone bar-hopping or clubbing or signed up for Spanish
lessons. Perhaps being an introvert had something to do with my choice of
discipline; it didn’t require leaving the house and spending money and
pretending I was on the lookout for adventure. Instead it was like rummaging around
in the medicine cabinet for some Vick’s vapor rub; the Psalms were right there
where they’ve always been, deeply comforting, reminiscent of my childhood, and
a tried-and-true balm.
So
I started in on Psalm 1: “Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the
wicked, or take the path that sinners tread, or sit in the seat of scoffers;
but their delight is in the law of the LORD, and on
God’s law they mediate day and night. They are like trees planted by streams of
water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper” (from the New Revised Standard Version).
I’m
afraid to say, or rather, I’m happy
to say I read no further. Here are my jottings, dated March 25, 1996, just
before I signed my divorce papers:
Bodies of Water
I
grew up in a desert, a void of my true self that offered me instead—or rather
forced –a world made of sand castles with just enough water (and salt water at
that) to keep them intact—
a
sand castle called the church in which my dad worked hard to keep it from
blowing away; in which old beliefs drew lines in the sand separating the
orthodox from the heretics; in which we buried bodies—any body—out of shame,
embarrassment, confusion over why God made us with bodies and what they are to
be used for
a sand castle called the Old South
in which my folks were advised to send me to dance lessons so that I could grow
up to be a Mardi Gras Queen (and as a result—even though they neither sent me
to dance nor put me in pageants—I grew to despise my body and movement); in
which the only choices were to ignore or to exploit, to deny or to abuse, to
tee-total or to practice addition, to live on land made of shifting sand and
pretend we were safe and stable or to live in the water which we feared and
knew we would be caught by the undertow and drowned; so we lived on the dry
sand devoid of getting wet and would only occasionally romp in the baby waves
at low tide under parents’ watchful eyes in modest swimsuits; never out in the
wide ocean engulfed by wave after wave, surfing, feeling the pulse of the
ocean, riding the wave of imagination or invention; never diving deep for fear
of never surfacing and of losing oneself only to be found true, whole, lovely
Psalm 1 begins, “Happy are those who
are like trees planted by streams of water which yield their fruit in its
season.” That’s the human condition, and we can pretend to be deadwood,
driftwood alone in the desert, pieces of petrified forest (petrified, scared of
whatever)
or we can dig our roots down past
the arid sand to the rich, lush, moist soil that feeds us; down to the living
waters that connect us, that transform the earth into food for the body.
We are not ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
We are tears to tears and sweat to
sweat.
We are bodies of water, born in a
water bed, passed through a birth canal, washed in love, sprayed with
affection.
Our maker breathes the moist breath
of life into each one of us, “You are my beloved in whom I give great pleasure.
I made you very good.”
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