My husband and I recently spent some time away for our anniversary and I discovered that in confined quarters–our all in one room on the island–it’s hard to find personal space.  My husband’s solution? To not having to listen to me all the time?  Turn off his hearing aids. Smile. 
It made me think about my own ‘selective deafness’ when God is speaking something to me and I don’t want to listen.

I fuss because you seem far away
and I fear I won’t be heard.
Me, bent over my work,
too busy to budge
like a recalcitrant child
refusing instruction.
I’ll lift my arm to respond to the Teacher,
but my hand is heavy as a
wet, soaking towel,
too full of myself to be wrung out,
weighted down with water
from my own still pool.

I edge closer to the moving,
rushing, living river of your words.
Over the noise I realize,
besides the moving closer
and the turning towards,
I will need to adjust my ears
to catch your words.
Above the clamor I lean in to listen,
finally willing to lessen my load.

I heave the towel,
reach out my hands
and race to the running water.

You always quench my thirst.

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