Sunday, February 9, 2020
A Kind of Evolving Hymn
Errors abound but the mountains don't care. Rust-colored light in snow-covered hemlocks is forever songless and still. I shovel paths for everyone, even the neighbors I'm mad at, and go inside and what appears but the same old poem. If you can recognize Jesus in a sunlit icicle, amazing, prismatic and impermanent, then you can recognize the Lord in your recognizing. Fried eggs, sausage, toast with jam and butter. A fresh pot of tea, real cream and sugar for the coffee. The silence feels private but it's a kind of shared worship, a kind of evolving hymn. The collective has one heart and we are together its beads of hot blood. Between me and you and our love and the world, what other religion will do?
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Sean, thank you for your always thoughtful blog and for your "sentences" here, especially this one: "The collective has one heart and we are together its beads of hot blood." I know you mean it more universally, but it feels especially appropriate for this troubled and polarized time, and I shall carry it with me into the day. Also, I want you to know that very often my not-commenting just means that your words and images have moved me beyond any available words. I suspect I'm not alone in that. Thank you, always.
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