Hope Has Teeth: In the Desert She’s a Dangerous Thing

Haven’t written about being lost in a long time.  Perhaps the lostness has taken over.

Like a blanket over a spinning world or a miniature landscape, the lostness quiets the wind, holds off the rains and stops things from growing, from speaking.

Only once have I felt resurfaced.  It rained for a moment and the desert let out a sigh, stillness and movement at the same time.  My body quickly found a compass, a sign to hope for.

I remember sitting on the back porch, drinking wine and smelling of lavender from the bath.  I remember all things hushed around me as though even trees prayed and then were answered and the call-back left the whole landscape in shock.

Our own echo thrown down.  Surrounded by what we most love and fear–hope-for.

The smell of an answer.  Lavender and wet.  My own sigh along with the desert, in chorus.

So all was hushed and honed-in.

It was as though, wandering for a time uncountable, the longness of it stretching on and on until it blanketed the compass that told both where to go and if one was lost, I had forgotten how-lost-I’d-been.

So I sat shaking in the answer-back, the lifting of the lost-veil, and cried.

But it’s back to drought and days that keep asking me my name, who am I, where am I going?

When the blanket of lost covers the landscape, spinning into a darkness where no light of even knowing-the-lost is visible, the heart goes numb.

I’ve lost my knowing-lost and my calling-out.

So now I sit and and try to remember even a slight memory of that longing-one-has-when-lost I have dropped somewhere in the dark.

What is the purpose of being lost if the heart doesn’t care anymore? Or is it protecting itself from a need so deep it doesn’t have to know where to call, it just stands still, blanketed in an unearthed hope that I can’t name?

I feel like running into the desert and cracking open the landscape, digging until the numbness in my heart tingles-out-of-itself.

I’m praying, not for rain anymore to quicken the search, but simply a moment, a second of recognition that there may be a buried hope that is un-nameable and that I have not forgotten or deadened the heart in learning how to long-for you.

Something tells me that in this stage of being lost is a lesson on the danger of hope.

Hope lacks. And hope steals. And hope carries the lost-girl into a cave and eats her map.

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