Wednesday, March 20, 2013

A Mistaken Gesture Of Atonement

A wellspring certainly. The world is ready to be healed. It is time now to will with God. He wakes and has no idea what that means but he likes it. This particular religious order he's envisioning may not be a bad start.

And yet and yet. The pine trees are all trim with yesterday's snow. In the hush before dawn chickadees try their little song - the two note Spring song - and it is lovely and courageous and lifts him. Efforts to avoid pronouns are - as they are almost always - unsuccessful.

"I cannot do this without you" is true - he thinks - yet he is poorly disposed to the particulars. But so what? On the phone the day before his mother sounded sad but also grateful and he was reminded as always how much of what is strong in him came from her. Bit by bit the world emerges from darkness, bit by bit we return to the sacred river.

He has never liked the squeaking sound one's boots make against fresh-packed snow. The son aims for the father and the father accepts it in a mistaken gesture of atonement (for what did he do to his father?) and thus we're back to the same old linearity. Part of the problem is that a sentence can only bear so much and if you're not attentive (a kind of loving, really) then they verge on unhelpful, another word for ruinous. Take the risk where others can see you do it: there is no other way to learn.

Ah, but in the end we come back to this: this writing, this way. If you don't know God, it's okay, you will. Get clear about resistance and work at seeing everyone as equally deserving of your love. In many ways, he is still a broken young man trying to assuage the familiar loneliness and you - you have still not decided whether and how to help him.

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