Hiding in Your Fear

Early images of Jesus feeding the pond in my heart in which he appears and reappears as lilies, salmon, eddies and rippling sunlight. A shift away from familiar prayers.

People want to be forgiven, which is to say given welcome, which is to say, seen as equals by those they see as equals. Quarter moon as always its own poetry and yet here I am, writing.

Study the periphery, bring what blurs into focus, find out what's hiding in your fear of being bored. A dozen bookmarks in Ascent to the Depth of the Heart.

Driving slowly west into a city for which I have no real narratives, only a handful of fragments and images. Stopping on our walks to give attention to this or that chunk of rock or fallen leaf, Chrisoula waiting patiently, looking at the sky.

Who dreams? Morning coffee while wrapped in one of the soft blankets my mother gave us years ago.

Allowing Christ to be what Christ longs to be for us, which is to accept the gift that is given, not the one we insist - subtly or otherwise - on getting. Certain sorrows that can only be approached with the phrase "blind horse." 

All texts are reconstructed in the moment they are read - why is this controversial? With what eyes do we see and are there other ways of seeing we are not yet seeing?  

Bittersweet thickens climbing the dead hemlock. A softness for Catholic churches when driving or walking past them that apparently does not abate, no matter how clear my reasons for leaving.

When our minds open - when the heart opens - it no longer matters what caused the opening, because the opening reverses our traditional understanding of cause and effect. Getting to her letter days after receiving it.

The rosary I carry slips from my pocket and everybody grows solemn and quiet while I gather it up. I'll be your baby tonight, indeed.