Feb 14, 2021, 2:27 PM
It can happen. The very act of pouring a pure cold glass of water from the antique pitcher into a fine crystal glass and then drinking it down, cold and flowing as deep as if drinking from the eternal wellspring of life. It can happen. The very act of stooping at the familiar and safe creek, where the water rushes fast and is as cold as arctic, yes, ancient arctic, all the while, stooping, then kneeling like a child on its way, learning to crawl and then with fine wonder of the water itself and something else, the hands serve as well as the antique pitcher and crystal glass-- they cup themselves round in grateful attribution, they immerse as handmade vessels that transport the clear hydrogen-oxygen in through the lips, down into the soul of the living vessel. It can happen that an everyday act of cranking at the tap, thrusting it as it were, in a morning rush, into the too familiar bathroom cup that needs cleaning, anyhow; but still, it can happen that this, too, can be raised to a sacred act, if only, to give pause, a moment. And Kavanah.