It is possible that when you lived with that other tribe too long,
beside the river which did not drain into your sea,
you picked up some bad habits,
like chaining your soul in a small closet,
because he was causing trouble,
because she wanted too much to eat.

You might want to break that habit.

Oh, don't misunderstand me.
If released from that closet,
he will definitely cause trouble.
She will certainly demand finer fare.

But it is only he who knows the way to the mountaintop
where the view is that you sorely need.
It is only she who can lead you to the spring
where your thirst can be quenched.

You cannot escape his rage, her hurt,
though it will help a little
if you ease his tender eyes gently into the light,
and massage her ankles where the shackles bruised.

And . . . start a new habit.

It was only in that other tribe you learned to ask
"What is wrong with my life?"

Here, where the river smells like ripe huckleberries,
and the birds sing the song whose words you almost remember . . .
here we ask, "How will I feed my soul today?"

Let Love Wash You