From Sisyphus and his endless, uphill rock-rolling where we end up tired as the smell of last night’s cod hanging in the kitchen or done like a dung beetle after rolling the last dung ball of the day. Imagine letting the ball fall and go rolling into the sea where ocean waves release upon the shore like the unclenching of a fist that has unlearned the slow steps of a pallbearer treading again and again upon the sacred ways, red as worn, sanctuary carpet in the morning light. To skip like a flower girl throwing rose petals left and right and into the face of the ring-bearer who carries his symbol of infinite love, careful not to let it drop and bust, a shattered jar of rainbow-colored gumballs, where chance could have them bounce and reel under a pew and disturb the slow, rolling of bones turning over in the graves of hard-working saints, long-dead and gone.
I learned to work like this from Sisyphus who, tired as a dung beetle after rolling the last dung ball of the day up its small food hill, let his ball go rolling into the sea where ocean waves like eyelids rose and fell, leaking salty tears upon the feet of the child who trembled like the slow, roll of bones turning over in graves of saints long-dead and gone, never to tread again upon the sacred ways, red as worn, sanctuary carpet in the morning light.
Worker of Wonders and Wonder, who moves as wind through Chaos and who fills the skies with cloud-shapes, we lie awake in torment guessing with thought, Will the coming day be a day for sowing or a day for reaping? Make whatever work we choose be fruitful and may we have fruit as the wind whispers and the clouds roll. Amen.