Ordination Laid Low

A soaking rain.

Spate brings down lingering oak pollen-pods to fully carpet the deck. Daily, enough pods are swept to fill the empty gallon planter kept at the back door. How thirsty the land has been. Leaves, grass, flower and fruit fatten in the rainfall. This is the God I know – not in the prayer and not in the receiving – but God in witness of that which lives.

A certain acknowledgement of the futility of questions echoed without clarity lands on my breastplate. Instead he asks me to consider the monastery without walls. Fellow pilgrim, is it priest and priestesses, or is it monks and nuns, all the way down? Either way, ordination laid low.

Birds still sing in the cold, morning rains and it reminds me of the Weezer lines:

I can take on anybody, I can do my thing
I don't wanna hurt nobody but a bee has got to sting

Travel plans, psilocybin, letting the queen speak. C and I talk about the sensuality of everything, least importantly, of sex. Is that just something we say when sex is off the table?

Psychedelic therapy, breaking laws, moving like a ghost behind the scenes.

Dark skies and storms foster a focus on things of the house. How dirt accumulates in garden season. How I tend to growing things in favor of that which refuses to vary or shift. How quiet the work makes the world.

Do I hear what you hear?