Making Our Way Back

Dawn is muggy and damp as of late. Walking in the half light, an older man, hunched in the upper back, passes on the cross street. His shirt is so threadbare that I can see scars and moles on his back. I see his skin. He says, “good morning” and I give him my eyes and smile and heart. Maybe he is a Trump supporter; there are so many of them here. Maybe he is a racist and person only wrapped up in himself. But in the moment, I gave him what I had.

Do you ever get the feeling that we were swept away in a rushing river and we are just now making our way back?

I press further into the subdivision to the park and the trails. There are paved and unpaved paths, but this early in the morning, I choose the more visible route.

The path changes direction several times and when it places me face to face with the east-rising sun, I forget myself utterly. A cardinal lands asking me to ignore heartless expediency. And prayers climb accordingly.

Did Mary Magdalene have to let Jesus go in order for him to become the Christ? Is letting go a false story, because really, what can be let go? Is love even ever possessed?

Rabbit ears aglow with morning light. Wild berry brambles encroaching well-laid plans. Warbler's words fall into my ear and heart. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Am I a ghost, whose participation is relegated to seeing? Does my image steal whatever space is left in the room? You, with unquiet dreams and a canyon's capacity to love – let me visit. Let me know. Let us.

Norman O. Brown, out of context, but still: the pleasure of ideal participation, and the prohibition of real participation: a eunuch in the harem.

I'm asking the Lord everything.

Give me ears to hear.