Monday, March 10, 2014

thin places.


"The universe moves you, and if you move with it, beautiful things will happen." - Amber Dúron

Flow. I'm walking in flux. I'm falling into place with serendipity, stepping into promise and it's black mud and deep earth. This spring is a prayer we're stepping barefoot into, asking please. The earth is thawing. Today I watched the snow collapse into itself with tired exhales, the soft peaks dimpling into slush into water, running running running down the drains in the street where the children race bottle caps in the summer, and into the belly of the city with the twisting black pipes and the cold gray stones, and through the tubes narrow and upwards, and into the green light lakes and rivers we slip into during the summer to soothe our freckled skin, and into the air the water rises again and it's rain.

Flow. To let go. I repeat these words until they run through my fingers. We sat in a warm car under a sudden blackness and the radio was on, we sang until our voices were hoarse and we retreated into the warm cocoon of home to scoop honey sticky on our fingers into cups of tea too hot to hold. This is one of those moments, I think. I listen to the songs we howled last week and am brought back to those moments scraping around trees and pulling our souls clean from our chests. She talked about waiting on God, and I'm sitting and wrestling and working through this place like a snarl of roots, untangling. I want to know, I whisper. I want to understand, I weep. This is my own symphony, and the crescendo doesn't sit well. I'm rearranging. I'm asking, please show up in this place.

Flow. An entire flight and I wrote fourteen pages, three of them about the sky. What we love surfaces. What we seek finds us. Knock, and the door will be opened. "There is no other stream," said the lion. All I know is, I saw the sun set sitting above the earth and I wept. I watched the towns retreat like miniatures, little toy homes, saw entire cities stretch into pinpricks like a child's game, and watched the world round like a ripe orange in my hands, summer. I wept.

If these are the days that must happen to you, then let them come. Let them come and shape this little heart and shake these hands and let them lead to something honest, something sacred. Let this story matter, let mine be true, I fold these words into prayers.

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