I Dipped My Hands into the Stars

In the Boundary Waters, between Canada and the USA,

The holy dwells.

All earthly beauty is reflected in the mirror of fresh water:

Tall green pines rooted deeply against the storms,

Large gray rocks etched with ancient life,

Shrubs of tiny blueberries, delicious in morning pancakes,

And the bluest of blue skies.

All is silence.

There are no motor boats, no cars, not even airplanes.

No harsh sounds to break the quiet.

Only the soft sounds of nature:

The lap of water gently kissing the rocky shores,

A cool breeze playing in the pines,

And the occasional haunting cry of the loon.

With no calendar to keep,

Each moment is awake,

Alert to life

And her beauty.

One night I stumbled through the dark

looking for a place to rinse my hands.

Having camped on a small island in this watery world,

I could find the lake in any direction ahead.

When I found a dark patch of water

I looked out across the lake’s great expanse.

The distant trees etched black shapes against the starry sky.

For a moment, I just stood in awe.

Then I knelt to wash my hands.

My eyes focused on the stars scattered before me.

The watery mirror brought them right to my feet!

I caught my breath.

It was a holy moment

When I dipped my hands into the stars.

But we all live

in Boundary Waters,

Where the holy fills the mundane.

When I run water to wash my dishes,

Am I aware

that once again

I dip my hands into the stars?

—Kathryn Pfaltzgraff