Wet Mind Boxes

I wrote this poem during the year that Hans and I were living in different cities, and at a time when I was still adjusting to life outside the Reservation. I have been reminded lately of that time and its challenges, which are similar to those in my life right now. My professor was talking about a ceremony that the Israelites used to do during this time of year during the Feast of Booths. In Israel it is the harvest season, but also the end of the dry season, so water is scarce. So they hiked from Jerusalem to the Pool of Salome for seven days to draw what little water was left and they poured it out in front of the temple as they processed with Psalms. There was something about this that has felt insightful and important. As if to say to God, it is dry, but I am seeking you and showing something tangible, an offering of water that is so precious at the end of the dry season. In my heart I know that in the dry season I don't travel to the water and pour out my offering to God, but instead seek out numbing agents to pass the time. But, when I heard about this I knew that I was like the Israelites, that I needed to continue to dip my cup in the water of life and ask for help again and again. So I share this in hopes that indeed, this is the end of he dry season for me, as I persevere to trust God to give what I need. Also, to remind myself of the many gifts of love and grace, like puddles in the road, I've been given along the way.

Wet Mind Boxes
November 2008

From the window, in my room,
The spacious skies seem like doom.
Form the strange, conscious, moons,

that throw, and throw, and throw.
The distance burns us dry
As empty as the vacant

House next door, the eyesore.
Then the rain falling on the pane
Says something to muddled brain.

Sings pattering like the steps
Of children dancing 'round brooms.
Says something about time,

Waiting-patterns of grace on
The cusp of the face, of the face,
The face of every created thing.