Managing Purple

Beatitudes by the lake.

On the highway to Gun Lake, a red-winged blackbird hovered above roadside cattails, suspended by strong headwinds. He marked time while the car sped on. My passenger and I looked at each other and smiled. This.

In the other, I see light. The pure kind. It changes one from the inside out and becomes prismatic in reverse. I want to take a bath in it and sleep in it and die in it. I open and keep opening. This is Love. Given in full.

Deep purple tulips are new this year. Planted last fall, I did not know what color they would be; this rich, velvety opulence emerges as a stunner. Formed together with light and soil and bulb, the expression of what is begins to beg for the cultivation of more. But we must not do that. That will only make us fall in love with purple instead of being Love itself. There is nothing to do, save for allowing the flow of light and color and spirit. Perhaps our noble intentions to manage beauty are hindering Home.

Our bodies are folded in the brilliant shimmer of Christ. He in me sees Him in you. Bodies be damned. A robin's egg fragment beams with blue against the black ground. I hold it and feel things. It connects me one layer deeper. I think the desire to devour is a call to join, beloved. No? All at once or layer by layer, that might be the fork in the path.

These are the just ramblings of a sleepless pacer. In the middle of the night I eat saltine crackers and a few slices of salami. Just after dawn, the dog and I walk under the moon's apostrophe. My chest is tight with frost and my breath stays in the air to hover over where I once was.

Perhaps it is not your everything that I need. But is it enough to know that is you who turned on the light?