Thirst
by: Mary Oliver
Another morning and I wake with thirst for the goodness I do not have. I walk out to the pond and all the way God has given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar but sulked and hunched over my books past the hour and the bell; grant me, in your mercy, a little more time. Love for the earth and love for you are having such a long conversation in my heart. Who knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting to be told to pack nothing, except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning.
Most people try to live the best lives that they can. Be kind. Laugh a lot. Help out friends and family in need. Read good books. Watch good movies. Be grateful for everything you have.
Of course, like everyone else, I try to follow these simple rules for happiness. However, like everyone else, as well, I fail on a daily basis. I have a thirst for the goodness I do not have, just like Oliver. I want things that I can't afford. If I had the money, I'd travel more. If I had the time, I'd write and publish more. If I had the power, I'd make sure Donald Trump went to prison for espionage and rape.
I think those things would make me happy. In reality, however, happiness is slippery. Thirst for goodness that's out of reach is unquenchable. Being an insulin-dependent diabetic since I was 13, I know a few things about thirst. When my blood sugar gets out of control, I experience craving for water that, literally, can't be satisfied, no matter how much I drink.
Physiologically, the explanation for this thirst is pretty simple. When the body's blood sugar gets very high, the kidneys need to produce more urine to try to excrete the excess glucose. So, the kidneys crank out more pee, and the brain sends out messages to drink more water to make up for the fluid loss. So, you drink more water, pee more, and then feel the need to drink more water again. It's an unending cycle, until the blood sugar is regulated to normal levels.
And that thirst is wicked. It's difficult to describe to non-diabetics. It's like running the Badwater Ultramarathon through Death Valley with only an eight ounce bottle of water. No matter how much you drink, your brain tells you to drink more, to the point where you can make yourself throw up.
So, I understand bottomless thirst.
Tonight, I'm hosting an open mic event called Out Loud. I inherited Out Loud from one of my best friends, Helen. As most of my faithful disciples know, Helen passed away late last summer. Helen was a force of creative nature--dancing between poetry and visual art and blogging and yoga. Sometimes in the space of a few hours.
Out Loud was all Helen, from the food and flowers to organization and hosting. It has been going on for well over ten years, every third Thursday of the month. Even at the start of the pandemic, when everyone was sheltering in place and avoiding all human contact, Out Loud went on, prior to the Zoom revolution. Artists and poets uploaded videos and images, and Helen emailed those files to friends and followers.
Out Loud went on and continues to go on now, in Helen's spirit. Helen really did have a thirst for the goodness of the entire universe--plants and animals and water, people and Bigfoot and comets. I have never met a person who reveled in life as much as her. Helen was unafraid to jump into the deep end of the ocean (she loved water), stand in front of a group of people and make a fool of herself (she never looked foolish), get lost in a foreign land (she always found people willing to help her out), embrace darkness (she always found light), and share in sorrow (she honored the dead and was surrounded by their guiding spirits).
Helen guzzled life as if she knew her time on this planet was going to be short. She taught me (and everyone she knew) how to live authentically, and, in the end, how to let go with grace.
Saint Marty is still thirsty for his friend Helen's stories--gospels she shared every third Thursday for years and years.
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