Bandages and Splints

Bandages and Splints

The torn soul must weep. I know this well; it is an indelible part of my existence that I choose not to share with most others including myself. My soul is in a constant state of one sort of damage or another. I adhere transcendent bandages and friends place spiritual splints to keep me afloat. Yet, right under the surface there is a fear that these riggings will fall away or be ripped off and my soul will let loose a torrent of tears that even the earth might not be able to hold.

This summer I was in Oregon to see friends. Having never been to the Pacific North West before, I imagined overcast skies and persistent precipitation that would keep me indoors for a good portion of my stay. It never actually rained. Cloud cover was intermittent and I got a chance to experience the “best weather” of the year in Portland. The locals were thrilled and made efforts to enjoy the pleasant climate to its fullest. Hiking, sightseeing and backyard barbecues were all on the to-do list. A fantastic array of outdoorsy activities awaited me every day. I was suffocated. By no means did those who were in my company create my feeling of impending doom. I did enjoy my time despite the feeling in my soul that something was not quite right and that for some reason, I had not fallen in love with the moist, timbered environment that so many find soothing and delightful.

Once back in my desert home, the stifled feeling was gone. Openness pervaded my existence even though the landscape was parched, and I was met with nearly intolerable heat.  During my pre-dawn hikes, I started to notice the apparent paradox in my preference for the inhospitable dry land over the lushness of the moist forest. As I walked along the trail, I began to realize that somehow life emerges from such an unforgiving, impenetrable space. The desert plants and animals are adept at survival in the harshest conditions. They use their resources and life continues. They cannot stop being. Then, I noticed perhaps for the first time, the vastness of the sky and how its arch wraps the surface of the earth in a cradle; a mother caring for her child no matter how impossible the situation may appear at first. The desert: Enfolded in celestial love, extending infinitely in the distance and ready to receive the torrents of my torn soul. The desert feels dry enough to handle the potential of my spirit opening and unleashing the tears of the child who wanted desperately to fix the unfixable, the tears of the mourning girl who lost her father and the tears of the woman who has been forsaken by her mother.  I could not drown in my own soul in the desert. The desert can handle all things.

It was the desert that I also retreated to for refreshment. My first get away since Oregon was to a retreat house in Tucson. It is here that I am able to back away from my frenetic life and reflect. The center is situated in a gorgeous location near petroglyph-enhanced boulders and dry riverbeds. It is at a slight incline and the city and mountains in the distance juxtapose each other. During this visit I began to think about how much I love the desert and I also began to worry about next summer when I am planning to go to Ireland for a pilgrimage. I have been to Ireland before. It is wet in Ireland. It is moist, soggy and drenched. There would be absolutely no way that Ireland could possibly hold the torrent of tears that could be released from my torn soul if the splints and bandages were to fall off. And, I am certain a pilgrimage makes spiritual first-aid useless. I would certainly drown in Ireland. I would not be able to go.

I was certain that my plans would have to be altered. Why travel half way around the world to die a miserable death in the damaged pool of my own soul?

I left the retreat house and it started to rain. On the highway, it rained heavier. The rain was torrential, coming down in sheets with barely any visibility. Cars were pulled to the side of the road seemingly unsure about traveling through the large amounts of water collecting on the highway. I drove on and it rained harder and harder. Water was lapping over the shoulder of the road and my phone alerted me that there was a flash flood warning in effect. The earth could not hold the water. The sudden precipitation was too much for the dry earth to handle. The desert was unsure of what hit it. There was a chance that someone, maybe me, could drown.

The desert has provided a sense of calm for me throughout my life. Security in knowing that it is strong and tough and able to handle all things given. A perfect shield to deflect pain, yet I have subconsciously known that the bandages and splints need to be in place because, in reality the desert really can’t handle the torrent of tears that I am poised to release. Or rather the risk of drowning is in my own backyard and not in some far off pilgrimage.

Perhaps it is time to get my snorkel.