A Far Cry from Heaven

Sometimes when the geese cry from their high place it is a song that contains my name, and what is happy in me elides through all space. Tremulous bluets at last in the yard, fingerling trout balanced in a cold current. What use are names in such a kind and forgiving welter?

We talked at length about how those countries in which atheism is on the rise seem to be having the most success in building a culture that harmonizes with Jesus's program of selfless love and caring for others. Technology is another form of magic, and all the old gods understand this and attend its application accordingly. Clouds settling, reminiscent of velvet, and we go back and forth beneath them in a dream - a remembrance perhaps - of rain in Kentucky.

All life is art. We go deeper into the cave, beyond even the possibility of light, and our breath deepens and slows, and what is God consents to come forth a little. Rabbits in the side yard, unread books, raisins, notes from old friends, and sourdough starter spilling from its container.

So many loose threads and somewhere a woman who can perhaps tie them, render a helpful embroidery - that is the old dream, the one that withdraws from us with each step into the rocky desert. Avoid cliche at all times and in all ways. The tea cools and I heft it in honor of the chickadee, bravely singing in the as-yet-unflowering dogwood, the song for which what is soul in me arises.

For our anniversary we climb Skinner Mountain with the kids - remembering old dogs and goats, burning and repairing and amending maps - and after at home share noodles and kombucha, Buddy Holly playing low. The impulse is to write and not worry who reads, and yet. Who desires God obscures God, and who affects religiosity has opened a department store a far cry from Heaven.

Tired after a long day teaching I fall asleep and dream I stand beneath a cliff composed of blue and yellow stones, a tiny figure gesturing at the top, and I cannot tell if I am being called to ascend or to step aside in order to allow for another's descent. Dad sold the last tractor and nobody knew how to feel about it, so we all pretended it was okay, which maybe it was but still - why not go into it? Hours spent exploring D minor yield sore fingers and a surprisingly aggressive lust.

Between windows, between doors, between dogs. The sentences like cellar wells come to in the forest, yellow wood sorrel blossoming throughout.