Sometimes we do poetry around here. Sometimes we do Psalms. Today felt like an either/or/and kind of day. Enjoy. (And head-nod to my friend Kelley Nikondeha who recently used the phrase "guts of the narrative," which instantly captured my imagination. It's weird how some phrases stick with you, yes?)
Pardon if you could, but between here and there, stable and steeple, might I reimagine divine language?
She came speaking of deliverance, it being mine for the taking, as if it were a thing to be seized, instead of some other great seizing, some unexpected tsunami or the crashing of Red Sea walls drowning death and dragging all refugees upward and into the light of all lights.
To lose yourself, he said, was the measure of mindfulness, (as if I were a coin, or a key, or a cigarette dropped somewhere to be forever fogotten); it is the escape to Heaven, to Nirvana, to Valhalla. Instead I find we’re in the newer, grand finding of the now, an exodus that first rose from the guts of all our narratives, and shot like the birth-star of Bethlehem straight into the eyes of the new charisma.
We can play pretend with the words of our fathers and the dresses of our mothers, apt we are with simple histories. We can play pretend, or strip it all naked, down past the platitudes and into the tender shoots, to the soft white heartwood, which is always and forever, good, and easy, and God.