A World of Servants

In the winter my heart is a wasp nest. Waking early to make coffee, sitting with Jeremiah in the kitchen, talking about changes. When we speak of war, we are never speaking of good news.

 

Jesus welcomes me, teaches me he does not ask for followers, you can do what I do, et cetera. Pulling the curtain aside to see Venus between empty limbs of the side yard maple. What is heavy, what is heavier.

 

Nobody eats bread these days, the sourdough starter languishes. Jack whinnying incessantly near midnight, we go out to find him lost in a corner of the pasture, unable to find his way into the run-in. What are you when you are not visible?

 

Yet if we cancel hunting, deer will eat our yards and gardens. Crows in the driveway, unusual to see them so close to where we live, is this what death looks like. Burdens, bear dens, grain bins.

 

A world of servants – a world where we all aspire to be last and least – is a world of peace, and a world of peace is a world in which we remember what we are in truth. Oh Holy Universe, thank you for including rivers, stars, chickadees, weed and blowjobs. Are you ready now to make the call?

 

Finally able to leave certain gatherings of certain men, not in anger or argument, just not needing that performance any longer - that posturing, that panic, that pathos. Make no assumptions, yes, but don’t neglect the importance of a well-developed epistemology. Brace yourself.

 

Creativity includes both no and goodbye, which I am only just learning. This lovely woman growing old before my eyes.