Down in the River to pray

I got a text from an acquaintance a few days ago. Someone that, while once considered a friend, had been too obviously inconsistent for over a year. It was one of those friendships sustained by Whiteclaws & surface conversation. In other words, the depth of our connection was about 4 feet of chlorinated pool water.

Either way, as you know, I’d grown weary of treading the fine waters of the friendship kiddie pool. Much like the aforementioned Public Storage of last week's post, there was piss in there.

The text came after several months of radio silence, having only been briefly interrupted by the temporary concern that swept through in early March. More than once - after that fateful month - I’d been asked for help on getting help.  Clearly, I’d failed at securing such assistance so it seemed rather ironic that I was suddenly the source for such information.  But I digress. 

The message came in three:

*ding* Hey! How ru?!?  (Yes, like that & with more punctuation marks than I care to type.)

*ding* U feeling good today? (today? Or shall I summarize the past 3 months?)

*ding* I have covid at the moment but wanna have lunch next week? (Solid finisher.)

I thought carefully, and responded:

“Hey, girl! I’m well! Thanks for asking.  No, thank you. I’m really trying to cultivate relationships that are consistent atm. I’m very energetically limited, but I appreciate it! Take care.”

Done, I thought to myself. I’d left the kiddie pool long ago, but the pretense, both to myself & others, of ever wanting to return now lay firmly to rest on my desk.

I’m not one to have ever pretended that 2,000 friends on any platform equated to deep, meaningful connections, but there was also something wrong with my current system. I’ve been feeling a sort of depletion, a weariness…..a wariness, too. Truth be told, I hadn’t quite figured out what it was. While I do enjoy floating the shallow waters of a casual connection every so often, there can’t be all there is.

I yearn for the deep dive into a soul; the submergence into frigid waters, the natural acclimation that two minds experience when they’re on the same wave.  I desire the ascension into conversation that forces you to emerge wiser; that first breath post-dive: deep, almost painful, and delightful.

Having swam in that before to the point of nearly drowning, the question now was…will wading ever satisfy? Or, more importantly, how do I learn to swim in that depth? Recalling those moments of submergence, it wasn’t the diving in that was the problem, but the coming up for breath. I’d allowed myself to get caught in the current. I didn’t fight the tightness in my throat or the pressure in my chest as my lungs begged for air; no. I had allowed myself to sink.

& so here I am, having the salty taste of open ocean on my lips, but wiser now, and bored, too, apparently, of shallow waters.

I’ve turned instead to the restlessness of the river, where it’s not so much about swimming or drowning or not, but allowing.

The river; where the sun still shines and the water - in Her profundity - suffice in peaceful acquiescence.