Article
Belief
Care
Creed
4 min read

Understand what we thirst for

Whether for water or meaning, it’s a primal force.

Helen is a registered nurse and freelance writer, writing for audiences ranging from the general public to practitioners and scientists.

A child wearing a wool hat holds a glass and drink water from it.
Johnny McClung on Unsplash

Quenching thirst is a global problem. It can also be profoundly personal, impaired by illness. For nurses, it can be ethically and emotionally difficult, when treating dying patients. But is there ultimate relief? 

Thirst is the subjective sensation of a desire to drink something that cannot be ignored. The world is thirsty; globally, 703 million people lack access to clean water. That’s 1 in 10 people on the planet. 

Thirst is a life-saving warning system that tells your body to seek satisfaction through swallowing fluid. It works in partnership with other body processes - such as changes in blood pressure, heart rate and kidney function - to restore fluid, and salt, levels back to where they belong. Failure of any part of this beautifully balanced system leads to dehydration (or water intoxication), and perhaps to seizures, swelling of the brain, kidney failure, shock, coma and even death. 

Sometimes it’s difficult to quench thirst, because of problems with supply. According to the World Health Organization, at least 1.7 billion people used a drinking water source contaminated with faeces in 2022. Sometimes in war, water is weaponised, with systematic destruction of water sources and pipes. Water laced with rat fur, arsenic and copper has meanwhile been reported in prisons across the USA.  

At other times, there may be “water everywhere, but not a drop to drink” because of individual problems with swallowing. As a nurse, some of my most heartbreaking moments have been when I have been unable to fulfil a need as basic as a patient’s thirst; when even thickened fluids have led to intense coughing and distress, and a realisation that I can only moisten mouths and give so-called “taste for pleasure”: very small amounts of a favourite liquid or taste using a soft toothbrush, or a circular brush gently sweeping around the mouth and lips to release some of the liquid - even, and especially, at the end of life when the patient is unconscious. 

Difficulties in drinking are common in dementia when fluid can seem foreign and swallowing a surprise to the system. It’s thought that over 50 per cent of people in care homes have an impaired ability to eat or drink safely; 30 to 60 per cent  of people who have had a stroke and 50 per cent of those living with Parkinson’s may struggle to swallow. 

Other conditions that may affect swallowing include multiple sclerosis, cerebral palsy, and head and neck cancers. Diabetes is characterised by a raging thirst owing to problems with insulin (diabetes mellitus) or an imbalance in antidiuretic hormone levels (diabetes insipidus). In intensive care, patients are predisposed to thirst through mechanical ventilation, receiving nothing by mouth, and as a side effect of some medications. But thirst is a “neglected area” in healthcare, writes palliative care researcher Dr Maria Friedrichsen.  

“Knowledge of thirst and thirst relief are not expressed, seldom discussed, there are no policy documents nor is thirst documented in the patient’s record. There is a need for nurses to take the lead in changing nursing practice regarding thirst.” 

Is there another thirst that is also being missed in nursing, and in life in general – a spiritual thirst, beyond the physical desire to drink? In his book, Living in Wonder, writer Rod Dreher argues that humans are made to be spiritual, and that a critical sixth sense has been lost in a “society so hooked on science and reason”. We humans crave love in our deepest selves; we have an insatiable thirst for everything which lies within – and beyond – ourselves. Auschwitz survivor Viktor Frankl, who was later appointed professor of psychiatry at the University of Vienna, became convinced that human beings have a basic “will for meaning.” “The striving to find a meaning in one’s life,” he wrote, “is the primary motivational force in man.”  

In the harsh sun of a Middle East day, an ancient story of a man and a woman encountering each other at a water well illustrates this dual thirst for water and meaning. The man, Jesus, thankful for a drink of water given to him at the well by an outcast Samaritan woman, said that “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” In that midday sun, such imagery made a powerful statement.  

Being mindful of spiritual thirst when drinking water is something also captured in a Ghanaian proverb and pictured perfectly in the many birds that drink by gravity, so tipping their heads back when they swallow.  

“Even the chicken, when it drinks, 

Lifts its head to heaven to thank God for the water”. 

Unsatisfied thirst is part of the human condition, we long for something more; it’s living proof of our immortality, says French poet Charles Baudelaire. Despite his Olympic success, athlete Adam Peaty said that society didn’t have the answers he was seeking, and that a gold medal was the coldest thing to wear. He “discovered something that was missing” when attending church for the first time, and now has a cross with the words “Into the Light” tattooed across his abdomen, symbolizing his spiritual awakening. We are more than mechanical machines with physical needs. We are rather gardens to tend in a dry and thirsty land, with souls in need of intensive care.   

Article
Belief
Change
6 min read

What makes a journey a pilgrimage?

Travel may broaden the mind, but pilgrimage can nourish a soul.

Graeme is a vicar of Marsden and Slaithwaite in West Yorkshire. He also cycles and juggles.

A country lane runs down a gentle hill between green and yellow fields under a cloud dappled sky.
The fields of Hertfordshire
Graeme Holdsworth.

On the recent anniversary of Chaucer’s pilgrims setting off to Canterbury, the British Pilgrimage Trust held a symposium on apocalyptic pilgrimage and spiritual tourism, in a London church – St James Clerkenwell. Nick Jones, the Editor of Seen & Unseen knows of my predilection for a spiritual aspect to travel, and recommended I go along. The only problem with his recommendation was that I live in West Yorkshire, and London seemed like an expensive journey for an evening sat quietly on church pews. 

My nearest church is St James in Slaithwaite, and as St James is the patron saint of pilgrimages, it seemed obvious to turn the journey into a pilgrimage. The shortest walking distance is 185 miles and would take me a month to walk. Kosuke Koyama wrote that the speed of love is three miles an hour, the speed God walks. However, God has an eternity to travel, and I had to be back to lead Holy Communion the following Sunday. Cycling (the cheapest, easiest, and finest form of travel) would take me two days, if I took it easy and stayed in a hotel halfway. 

I love the isolation of these high places, the wilderness-ness; it is a place for crying out, and place where only God is listening. 

Not every journey is a pilgrimage. Sometimes people are just travelling. What would make this a pilgrimage rather than simply a long bicycle ride? I believe it is the intention of the heart that makes the difference - what are pilgrims hoping to achieve? Travel tends to broaden the mind, but a pilgrimage is something that might nourish a soul. There is no suggestion that every pilgrimage is religious, but when people undertake pilgrimages they are making a statement that they’re looking for something beyond themselves. For those who are religious, they’ve made space to meet God in the full knowledge that they may be disappointed. Dr Paula Gooder wrote that Christian faith sometimes focusses rather heavily on the state of a person’s soul, neglecting the state of their body. I hoped to enjoy some beautiful cycling, to re-engage with physical-prayer, and to worship God with my heart, soul, mind and strength in a whole body way. Racing cyclist Jens Voigt famously said, “Shut up legs” when the lactic acid began to burn, but what if my legs are speaking a non-verbal language understood by their creator God? Then let them shout: let the hydrolysis of adenosine triphosphate be my body praying ceaselessly, without words. 

The beginning of my pilgrimage took me south and east along the edge of the Peak District. In my planning I had relied on cycling heat-maps to find the roads cyclists preferred. As I climbed a steep hill, I remembered that cyclists are a stupid bunch who often go out and find the hardest roads to cycle. I paused for breath at the top of the climb from High Bradfield; where the Agden, Dale Dike, and Strines reservoirs were stacked up into the distance, and the call of peewits pierced through the noise of the wind. I love the isolation of these high places, the wilderness-ness; it is a place for crying out, and place where only God is listening. 

Bolsover castle was the last serious climb of the day, and from this point on the landscape became a lot gentler. Along the ridge after Bolsover, skirting around the west of Mansfield, I noticed the call of Skylarks, and that the fields had changed from drystone walled moorland to green and yellow crops, surrounded by hedgerows. Houses now had thatched roofs rather than the slate tiles of West Yorkshire. I also began to notice churches: Cottage-core villages with pretty gardens and pubs-on-the-green, their church buildings that seem well-kept, giving rural communities a sense of identity. It was around 7pm when I reached a Peterborough hotel. 

Pilgrimages are often built around the destination, but I’ve found a real joy in the interim moment; the time between setting off and arriving.

Getting up in the morning after a long day of physical exercise is not easy. Although this day would bring an end to my mini-pilgrimage, I was looking forward to the symposium and meeting other pilgrims. Evensong at St Paul’s Cathedral was to begin at 5pm, and needed an early start to make sure I would arrive in time. 

I passed a roadside marker with the distances to Huntingdon and London painted black on a white stone. The Milestone Society’ seeks to preserve these way markers which have a history stretching back to Roman times. I felt a sense of historical connection to those who would have travelled before me. 

There was next to no traffic and I was alone with my thoughts and the songs I sing to myself when I’m happy. One of the lovely things about cycling is the activity itself: we’re doing the thing we want to do, and when we’ve finished we will no longer be doing the thing we want to do. Pilgrimages are often built around the destination, but I’ve found a real joy in the interim moment; the time between setting off and arriving. 

I’m glad I didn’t just catch a train to London. I felt that I’d remembered the diversity of English countryside, the freedom of long-distance cycling, and made connections with like-minded pilgrims.

The traffic was increasing as I closed in on London, and I noticed another change in the housing. Here in the home counties the houses were getting a lot larger, further back from the road, and protected by gates and security systems. The sense of community that came from closely packed thatched cottages around an ancient church building was disappearing. Then suddenly there was an exponential shift in the cycling experience as I entered Enfield: cars, scooters, cyclists, motorbikes. The sound, and visual intensity of city living humanity swamped my senses. 

 I’m glad I didn’t just catch a train to London. I felt that I’d remembered the diversity of English countryside, the freedom of long-distance cycling, and made connections with like-minded pilgrims. I also refreshed my spiritual practice of physical prayer, and time alone with God in the wilderness. 

It was about 2:30pm when I checked into my hotel near Kings Cross, unpacked the clothes I’d brought with me and freshened up before taking a walk south to the Thames embankment. After a pie and pint in a London boozer, on the banks of the River Thames, I walked to St Paul’s Cathedral for Evensong, then joined a walking-pilgrimage back to St James in Clerkenwell. St James Slaithwaite to St James Clerkenwell completed, arriving in time for The British Pilgrimage Trust’s symposium of talks and singing. Among the wonderful speakers, it was a delight to hear historian Tom Holland as he spoke to the apocalyptic call: to be a pilgrim. 

He spoke about Chaucer, pandemics, black death, and the community aspect of pilgrimages. He joked that academic historians tend to be squeamish about attributing too much credit to religious or spiritual experiences as driving forces behind historical events. However, spiritual and religious drivers are significant: in 1033 there was a massive pilgrimage from all over Europe to the holy land, which came with an apocalyptic anxiety as 1,000 years had passed since the death and resurrection of Jesus. I reflected that contemporary anxiety of apocalypse is less focussed on the return of Christ and more on trigger happy world leaders in Russia, Israel and Iran…but I wonder if there will be a similar Christian pilgrimage in 2033. 

 

Read a full account of Graeme’s pilgrimage ride on his blog.  

Find out more about the British Pilgrimage Trust’s routes and resources.