Give thanks to the gods of many things For dancing alive in still water For the smile on faces creased with years and for the delight of a first surprise For sleeping in under soft covers and the cracked window welcoming the cold air For brothers that call first thing in the morning and for sisters here and over there For all those who have gone before carefully placing the stones along the way For the drizzle that gives way to snow For gathering and not gathering with neighbors and with enemies knowing despite all knowing that there will be another year on the other side of this one
Make the audience believe you don't have anything yet you are still doing just fine.
The dance, from one dance to the next dance, circling around itself as generations abide on the edges, gazing into the circle of what cannot change and not ever end.
Breaker and Mender, Tearer and Weaver, Rupturer and Binder, who sets us on a way; we fill our days with consuming visions of so much and end up feeling rent and shattered; collect us as we tear ourselves and each other to pieces, holding it all so nothing is lost and falls. Amen.
I said, "The last bite tasted the same as the first bite." She said, "Sometimes the call to be different from those around us remains hidden in folded spaces." I asked, "How, then, might loving our neighbor fit into knowing differentness?" She answered, "Shrines on the same side of the street often share peculiar and various words of comfort." I said, "I recognize where the need for performing in the eyes of my ancestors comes from." She said, "We place a baby in our aunt's arms and witness the generations coming to us."
What seems like an answer to a question may appear behind the leaves whose color is finally revealed across a long season of waiting. Conversation with the whirling, complex colors of the kaleidoscope can dance from one meaning to another across the lengthening of shadows. When I was young I scribbled across the lines because I wanted so very badly for colors to move beyond the boundaries set by time. The colors we color now don't have to feel like questions hurrying us across the roads that we have made loving what we have lost.
I believe that if it is not simple to say, say it is not simple.
God of fruits that feed and nourish, God of dangers that puncture and cut, light the porches of well-being; for while you hand out treats in places we find so hard to discover, we seek the tricks of promises for an easy eternity, looking in the fields of fortune for the harvests of fame. Amen.
To return to the books of prophetic doom seems extreme on lazy fall days such as these. Don't worry about proper lunch companions. The messiah will return when we are ready. Too many ransom themselves to the futile ways inherited from their fathers and mothers. Honesty comes in many forms of complexity. Be the fire that raises beauty from the ashes.
I said, "I have a confession to make. I failed to do what Simon said." She said, "Perhaps it takes one act of disobedience before we can claim our inheritance." I asked, "What practicality does a belief have if it doesn't make a difference in our lives?" She answered, "Is it a belief or is it something that should be trashed?" I said, "I have yet to consult with the oracle of doom and gloom as to what if any action is needed." She said, "Leave prophecy for the pages of the books taken seriously by scholars."