I breathe the truth in the dust that lingers in the air from years of patient longing. A daughter asks me to carry her raising her arms as she turns to me saying, Uppy. The ordinary resumes after a vacation trip that took us to the edge of delight, playing in the waters of life. Unpacked, we ride our bikes to the fountain where the girls walk circles counting bricks and the cascades spray mist upon us. The simple pleasures adorn themselves still finding refuge from the complex which waits patiently for the following day. Earlier, the flight path of our return took us over where we now stand and we looked down upon the roof of our house and the woods and this tiny circle of water which now becomes our daily destination.
Fascinating images from long ago glitter in the grass. A daughter runs through a sprinkler across the wet lawn. Another turns the page while sitting on the driveway reading. Still another calls for me to give her a push on the swing. I ignore the silent roaring of time feeling my very bones become old. The neighbor makes himself known with a call and a wave. A dead man out of mind, a forgotten ancestor, rises to play. Buckets and toy shovels wait in the sandbox where some grass grows. The soundlessness cannot last all the bright day long, can it? I look around for my hiding place we built the previous winter in the snow. All I see is the length of reflected light stretching toward my eyes. In the water the nightscapes dance as a promise after the sun goes down.
During dinner I said, "My feet are too large for my room." She said, "Any room means riotous wealth upon which you can walk." I said, "But cramped living leads to small bitternesses and resentments." She added, "And also for cozy living arrangements that call for lots of snuggling." I smiled. "I welcome those small delights which can be found when space is at a premium." She said, "All of creation is one large room."
Why is there always enough space after dinner and before bedtime to ask one more question? What makes a two hour sail in the burning sun too long for any questions to be asked? How does my gaze fall upon the one book I have wanted for a so long stacked in the midst of questions? And, as the Psalmist asks, "What profit is there in my blood, when I go down to the pit?"
God Who Burns and Does Not Destroy, who whirls in the wind by day and dances in fire before us by night, beguile us with visions in the corners of our eyes, beautiful enough if beauty will do, interesting enough if we are bored, satisfying enough if we hunger, but just enough and no more, for we are already sated on enough of us and more will make our feet too heavy to turn and be amazed that the bush burns and is not burned up. Amen.
Whose are these, these fingers, that tamp gently upon my face? Layer after layer of plaster strips softened, gently pressed then smoothed upon the ridges and folds of my cheeks, nose and chin. I hear the quiet comments of one daughter to another saying, Here, and, There, and I relax into another year of camp where the years themselves layer, each upon the other, creating one memory from many memories that I will take to the gates on my death and say, These days, these moments, were the finest of my life.
redemption through creation bending without breaking a clay figure enlivens to be examined as reins slowly drape upon body and soul played by those who believe beauty lies in the beholden the push of desire mirrors the pull of the same sacrifices of being lifted along the safest journey to the temple where curtains of many colors hang covering the path in rich likelihood and voices divide the fires making all searches sense what stretches to be found
Today, the hummingbird whirs, meandering from one branch of the river birch to another. The Psalmist writes, "The soul shall dwell at ease," and I almost feel it, biblical in my repose. Though, nobody knows why such stillness fades from a moment at ease to the scraping of knees dragging today's load of our belongings behind us.
I write and nap as my daughter naps, after a day of riding the Gulf waves, up and down, up and down, into the soft, white sand of the beach, to arrive with joy and stand where drip castle creations slowly fold back into the sea.
I cannot imagine a soul apart from the body. And, I understand the dynamics of soul-attachment are not meant for me to know. But if I, my soul, am to float away up into the heavens upon whatever breeze that blows when I die, I would like to enjoy the ride with the body that I leave behind. There are those, perhaps many, who look forward to that day of detachment from disease, paralysis and fear that inhabits the corporeal. Yet, what is this the Psalmist writes, God keeps alive and restores souls? Does this not change the yearning for moving along after death if maintenance is still required?