Creator of wealth and wages, sustaining living, feeding multitudes, giving everything, withholding nothing; make us see enough for all as the only way for each of us to have enough; for we say, Give us this day our daily bread, grumbling, while hoarders hoard, spenders spend, treasures trove, and demand grows. Amen.
I have yet to attend a funeral where the officiant declares, The deceased has gone to hell. Does that absence, or avoidance, create some strange disservice to those who survive? Perhaps a detriment to the deceased? It is our enormous error to view the present state of nature as a punishment for divinely-prohibited, fruit- nibbling. While there are those who still feel that the sun is the center of their universe, I choose to bring the newborn baby home with the expectation that tradition will give her all that has been created and fall away to something terribly and wonderfully new.
I keep "Minute" perpetually on my shopping list, hoping to find one on the grocery shelf tucked between the dried blueberries and granola. And then to find another and another and another. A strange way to seek immortality - no less bizarre than traipsing off through a jungle in search of some mythical fountain of life where a sip of bubbling water promises an additional breath for each breath drawn. To live another day - to experience one more hurricane, more casualties of war, a sunrise and another summer of the buzz of cicadas - with permission from life to get out of bed and to be a beginner again. Is one experience of body-surfing a wave into the beach not enough? The taste of banana taffy again? To hold the hand of my beloved? Or do I search for more time afraid that, like birth, death will only happen once?
Scratches in the wood floor hold memories of rushing to the door hoping to greet the promised wishes of tomorrow. And the goldfinch hangs upside down on the head of the sunflower inquiring of the loose, black seeds, Will you feed me? And the man, perhaps in a long coat, walks into his shadow as the sun surges upwards over the slope of his shoulder. And a woman bows her head over her book, not saying a prayer, but moving her lips soundlessly, speaking to one not there. And above, the blades of a fan spin, pulling the hot, human air towards the ceiling of heaven where angels wait. And all will be well, we are told, when the yearn of one moment meets the longing absent in the expectation of the next.
I said, "I have decided to give my life the title 'Extreme Experiments.'" She said, "Funny, I don't consider myself extreme or experimental." I said, "But you have given me the possibility to recognize a grander perspective." She smiled. "Two people. Peculiar lives. Some shared space and time spent in each other's arms makes all the difference." I smiled, too. "I had no idea this conversation was going to turn into a love letter." She said, "As one brilliant mind wrote, 'We complex people cannot retreat to blockish simplicities.'"
to experience as the leaves fall and rest upon the frosted ground remembering how they unfolded just months before in the springtime air how the child crossed the street not returning never to be seen again having disappeared into their own drawing of a storm of hope on a winter day where life is an extreme experiment in truth and the possibility of grander vistas lures the eyes down the block and around the corner into adventure
To find the perfect book To understand birdsong To find intention to be For hot water in the bathtub to stay hot while I soak For muscles in my back to never knot For both sides to arrive and be surprised To wait, always wait, in peace To feel enough discomfort to yearn To understand the fine print
I AM who I AM, known by what has been and by the moments of here and now and by the dreams of what can be, may the multitude of I AMs we cry join together into a chorus of WE ARE; for once again our pronoun usage focuses more on the me in ourselves and threatens to unravel the careful stitching of our ancestors through time which brought us together intersecting our pasts, our presents and our futures. Amen.
Won't it be fun? Isn't it fun? Wasn't it fun? How much fun was it? How much fun is it? How much fun will it be?
To dad I really Love you. xoxoxoxoxo xoxoxo. I think you are the best dad for me. I hope you had fun at Chicago. and thank you for getting this note book for me & cori. I like it very much. Love your Baby Sydney