Hindman Invocation

Patty Ireland

O children, come to the waters of truth. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers. The waters know your names. You were born of them and the spirit.

Come now as Jesus came. He walked willingly into their depths. And the Wild Man who lived on locusts and honey, with his long, matted locks flying, his rank, camel’s hair loin cloth held up by a worn leather belt, took Jesus’ tender face, the dark doe-eyes wide and unclouded, and thrust it down, down.

Under.

O friends, come to the waters of attrition. Let them wear down, waste away all that is transitory. Let them rush toward unknown silence, plunge toward all we fear, sweep away the here and now.

Drink softly as the waters take you. Over the Jordan yonder. Sweet, terrible clearing.

Rebbe said the waters reveal inner sound. Drain the living of distraction. Sharpen ears to hear only what matters. Small, tinkling bells of conscience that rise up to a grand charge. Battle cry of outer limits: Separation. Imperfect wholeness. Nothing. No thing.

Preacher said the waters are God’s wrath. Swallowing up pride. Washing away walls we build to keep us apart. Setting our collective tears free to be carried together into a mighty river of One.

Listen, children: 71 percent of the Earth’s surface is covered in bodies of water. Human bodies are made up of 50 to 65 percent water. 2 to 3 liters of water are needed each day to keep human bodies running. Without water, human bodies can survive three to four days. Human bodies can drown in less than 60 seconds. Only a half a cup of water is needed to engulf the lungs that balloon, deflate, balloon, deflate. The gasping starts.

1) Struggle to clear the airway;
2) Submersion/breath-holding;
3) Aspiration;
4) Unconsciousness;
5) Cardio-arrest;
6) Death.

Bodies. Clutching at the crumbling bark of trees now. Rushing savagely amid muddy debris to the wide arms of the river. Bobbing their heads, mossy and putrid. Washing up by the bridge.

O spirits, come to the waters of life and death. Coo of the dove John saw rise above Jesus drifts, sings out over the mobile home surging mightily along, Mommie, Papaw, two children clinging to the roof.

The dove cries. The sheriff cries. There was nothing I could do. Nothing. No thing.

O poets, linger near these waters of darkness. Drift up. Mingle with Still, Furman, Cobb, Slone. Intertwine yourselves in the mist. Back we are at pre-creation. Watery chaos of primaeval myth. Let the ark grow fat in your souls. Let yourselves gather two of every moment, cold and wet. Shape-shift them into a morning after. Stretch out your arms. Release the dove.

“This is my child in whom I am well pleased.”