I remember my life after death where my body no longer struggles against the struggles which a body longs for thrown into the pool where fear plays. Playful fear splashes in the neighbor's pool making cries mocking the pull of drowning. The mockingbird cries pulling drowning sorrows into the radiance of blue. Blue radiates, mirroring the drops of sorrow upon the neat page listing summer plans. Summer pages turn neatly as plans list according to the number of joyful shouts. I shout with joy counting the number of times I live after the memory of death.
In my conversation with God last night God confirmed that God does not have the power to end the universe. Which is a very human quality as humans also set in motion events every moment that cannot be undone even by the most fervent wishes, giving birth to regret and anguish, heartbreak and disappointment, grief and remorse, creating a space for the creation of possibility: repentance.
And where does the word 'and' appear in your daily speech? And how often does it end your sentences knowing the endless horizon approaches? And does it wrestle with the undoingness of 'but' hoping only to be spoken aloud? And does it like to mix itself all up at times with a few friends to go to the dance? And...?
The dollar calls from the direction of irony where spirit, this time, attaches itself with blessings and Sunday ceremonies. The voices of plenty shout from the other side, dwelling in pages of countless books lined on shelves dwindling to the horizon. I live uncomfortably in the space of paradox, between incongruity and enough, hoping for the strength to simply abide.
I said, "Last night I dreamed of living in the lower level of a duplex." She said, "Surely it was a nightmare knowing the space where you lived when I first met you." I said, "Though my stay ended so lovely. You riding in on your beautiful stallion to save me." She laughed. "I remember calling out for you to let down your hair so I could pull you up." I laughed too and added, "And here I had just taken the clippers to my hair." She said, "And thus began our long tradition of making do with what the other has given to us."
I have changed residences once again though the front porch I sit on remains the same. The play of the sunlight and of the maple tree leaves dapples the ground at my feet and I think of you. I am eating blueberries, one at a time, careful to not get the tiny seeds caught between my teeth, the way yesterday’s problems tend to tuck themselves between the floorboards of my living space, as if taking a nap will make them fresh for the journeys ahead; a trip to the grocery store, the gas station, to the place selling shiny electronics which eat up whole paychecks in one bite and to the shoe store. I like shoes. And, if my small pocketbook would allow me, I would wear a different pair every day And walk before you.
Creator God, shaper of fear and amazement, empty the tombs before us once again for we stroll towards death, unamazed and fearless. Amen.
What is the chance for destruction to follow the same path, by wind or by water or by fire, twisting, taking, turning, collecting possessions into its embrace? Is the death of one child not enough or must the demands of the demons who cry, More, make offerings a daily ritual, to be met with trembling and with tears once again?
I have seen balls turn uphill, neither rolled nor thrown, when the world went upside down. And the streets grew wider making a way for thousands to walk abreast holding hands. Sheets removed themselves from lion-clawed chairs. Food and drink appeared on tables. Warnings turned into eyes wakening, dressing for time captured during the day. And the mudball needed just a light rub or two to become golden.
Hunger brings me to you thirsting for what is hidden.