The Spaces Between Dropping Water

Our water has been out since yesterday morning. The pump seized up.

But the (gasoline-powered) garden pump kicks out large amounts of clean water, we have lots of containers to fill, and the guys should be out to fix the pump today. So, a temporary hassle rather than a disaster.

Friends offered us a chance to shower at their place on the way to work, very nice of them. I chose however to bathe the "old-fashioned" way - I heated a pan of water on the stove then put that pan, a saucepan to use for dipping, and a pitcher of cool water by the tub.

I am a fan of showers, and of long soaks in a hot tub. But as much as I like the brief isolation from the world which a shower enables, I also tend to be thinking about the day ahead rather than just enjoying the cascade of the water. Too, the white noise of the running shower contains all sounds, including the bogus sound of a ringing phone, and my mind tends to wander to song bits and movie quotes and the various bits and pieces which crowd the corners.

By contrast, bathing by dipper was an exercise in rediscovered sensations, old/new considerations, and punctuated silences. It turns out the trick to such bathing is adding just enough cool water to take the edge off of the hot water; I was reminded as to just how sensitive is our skin in reporting temperature differences and how one bit of skin may be hot while another is cool. There was a finite amount of water available, so pacing and judicious measurement is inherently required, and having "hauled" all the water I was aware of (and grateful for) every drop. And bathing by dipper is a calm thing, a quiet thing - I could hear birds outside the window, the sound of the water sluicing across me, every drop as it fell...

I was in the moment. Not replaying the movie of last night or singing a song or envisioning the day ahead. I was simply and totally bathing. And it was wonderful. And cleansing.

As I toweled off, I flashed on an ancient Japanese woodcut, a man sitting on a little stool in a bathhouse, grinning as he pours a dipperful of water over his head, the hot tub waiting nearby. We are brothers, he and I, across great time and space.

When I get home tonight there should be water on tap as usual, and I will be happy to have it back.

But I think I shall still, now and again, bathe by dipper so that I may re-enter the clean moment.