Sunday, November 2, 2014
A Fatal Tourism
Wind, and the sound the wind makes, a bellows above landscapes I know by heart, and have never really left. The frozen exterior is only biology another way. When I was little, I memorized prayers and poems for fun, and recited them in the forest, also for fun. Swallows are a beloved, a nearly mystical bird but chickadees do the heavy lifting, in the way that I rarely bother eating crabapples but the trees themselves have never not marked the various paths unwinding before us. One step makes clear the next, which is a way of saying don't worry so much, and also, get on with it already. Men with hats, men with guns, and men with the burden of not knowing how to say what burned to ash in their throats. Was that what we needed to hear but didn't? Well, Jesus always reflected a confused but beautiful ideal and I am only just lately understanding there is a) no penalty for not lingering at Golgotha and b) no obligation to celebrate Passover in Jerusalem. Avoid a fatal tourism indeed! In the end, there is nothing to do and nobody special with whom to do it, and yet I still wait on her love letters, and remain grateful for her willingness to kneel. There is also the burden of finding one's way with words while knowing silence is the last and surest guide. The words settle like bread crumbs in our wake and hungry crows abound! On the other hand, how happy I am in the dark of 4 a.m., how gently the dog rests her head on my knee.
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I love to see swallows. The first sight of one, as they arrive back in the UK for summer, is always exciting. I once spent a wonderful half hour sitting on the canal bank, watching about a dozen swallows, as they circled around, skimming over the water, the sun reflecting on the blue of their bodies, then back high across the field behind me. As I silently gave thanks, one flew right over my shoulder and chirped, and it seemed to be an answer that I was welcome.ReplyDelete
We don't have chickadees here. I think the closest we have is blue tits. They are cute and round and fidgety, and never stay for long on the feeders.
Yeah, birds are symbols of grace - bridging the gap between Heave and earth in a way. The loops and arcs of swallows are holy, somehow. They nested in our barn eaves when I was growing up. I don't know blue tits but they are lovely little birds!ReplyDelete
I recognize myself in those moments when I come upon a pain so deep and appear to be fearlessly standing beside it. And I can't deny that over the years I may have taken some pride in being able to do that. Can I let that go now?ReplyDelete
I believe I look because I convinced myself that the Truth is just on the other side and yes "they" are holding out on me allowing the answer to be ..."burned to ash in their throats."
Oh, how blessed are we to have a faithful companion willing to call out our lollygagging. "One step makes clear the next, which is a way of saying don’t worry so much, and also, get on with it already."
"a) no penalty for not lingering at Golgotha and b) no obligation to celebrate Passover in Jerusalem. Avoid a fatal tourism indeed!"
I too have come to the crossroads where I believe I have exhausted most pathways and its time to take up silence and give it a fair shake.
I'm sending a quick nod and smile your way...grateful always for your sharing.
Thank you, Annie . . . The crossroads is a holy place, its own chapel . . .ReplyDelete