Hidden God, beyond the horizon, underneath the nearest stone, behind the turn of the earth, within the veins of dropped leaves; we turn and turn again and you spin around us with yourself; come into our lives with things that do not need to be observed for our attention wanders and the shiny has replaced the simple. Amen.
The paradox found in the sign saying exit pointing the way home. Being discovered in a desert place by someone carrying a glass of water. When the answer to the question, How do we get away from it all? does not matter. And the light from a distant room shortens the length down the hallway.
I said, "I dreamed last night that the troublers of conscience came streaming out of the woodwork." She said, "Sometimes even the ravens demand attention while performing." I asked, "How does a voice make sound in the midst of people who are convinced that only they know the real ways?" She answered, "Silence is fertile ground for mutterings to emerge." I said, "In walking from place to place, so many feel mysteriously unconnected to anything that might be called human." She sighed, "The faithful remnant may come and go unexpectedly but they will be seen and heard."
What makes the fallen ash leaves curl when they touch the hard ground? Does looking down at the ground make the circling vulture dizzy? How many nuts buried in the ground will last the winter for a squirrel? Will the ground remain solid beneath my feet as I stand in uncertainty?
The holiday celebrating this and that came and went. The dark-eyed junco returned from summering in the north. After spending some time comparing the symbols of linear and circular thought I put my notes away. Days are passing. Why must I cover the ground walked by so many before me while horizons ahead of me wait to be fused into some greater picture where all turn circles in the dance?
It is difficult to write these poems while I continue to live outside myself walking avenues covered by the steps of my ancestors.
God of Now and God of Then and God of Will Be, who endlessly appears in the corners of our eyes, burning, in a bush, in a smile, in a picture and in the alighting of a falcon in a tree; we imagine your name in our imaginings and find our thoughts far too narrow and small for pure being to settle into us in these dizzy days; send us into the realm of corners where we dare to believe nothing is true and sacred and, burning, we may be seen rising in our finest moment of freedom. Amen.
To never blush in private while raindrops fall off the leaves. To constantly call G*d down from the heavenly throne. To present things in my mind in ways that make sense to the circling vulture. To bring people to faith in mornings where angels rise with the sun.
The challenge is to bless and uplift to include without pointing a finger at the flaws that divide.
Which color best describes the way a mourning dove cries in the morning? How many days walking in the rain before the last leaf falls to the wet ground? At what time of day is it best to alter the God that appears at the Altar? How many differences are there between the oppressed and their oppressors?