Blustery cold. Halfway to the bridge my face hurts and I can't feel my toes. The dog leaps in and out of snowbanks, limping a little after. Yet you are there when I return - shaking your head at my foolishness - and my heart lifts a little.
How hard it is to trust that what is needed is given! And not once but always and in all ways. The space between what God is and what you are is simply your idea that such a space exists (or is necessary somehow). Thus the haven the proverbial other offers.
Thus this, this way. The green candle burns slowly and my legs ache but I don't move. S. says to trust this new inclination to sit quietly in the darkness so I do. What happens only seems to happen - or you can see it that way if you want to.
And I do. Only later, halfway up the hill, do I think to wonder what the brook sounded like, buried again beneath elbows of gray ice. For no reason a dragonfly keeps entering my thoughts, followed by a sense that somewhere a hummingbird is in crisis. Stars wheel by, an old man freezes in the snow, and somewhere someone wants an answer to the question, was God at Auschwitz?
The way I have chosen is one way but for me it is the whole way. You have to see it that way if it is going to work. Old lovers visit but now is the time to ask - and not be scared of answering - what is the visit for? Smoke stirs in the hidden chimney and then reaches for the stars, almost but not quite invisible.
Post a Comment