Watching Jesus from Behind

Why shouldn't downturns finish what they start? To dig in and fight is one way to go but in the end, yielding hurts so much less. Sifted light as scripture. Heat as lamentation. Church begins at dawn where I am from, mister.

Lately, crossword puzzles with coffee replacing meditation and yoga. Anytime I stop moving or thinking, I am transported back to the moments of transfiguration. We held hands and melted into the damn the river and for the life of me, I cannot wrap my head around how we literally walked away from everlasting life. When one is all-in on love, one cannot predict or save or mitigate. And yet, it seems this is exactly what has been accomplished.

Black-eyed Susans, butterfly bushes, tiny tea roses bursting in concert. Just after daybreak, dozens of hot air balloons breathe like dragons above a waking canopy. Rainbow zigzags, a cartoon character, the Captain America symbol . . . all floating overhead in silence except for exhalation. I take it as a sign to cancel my plans, eat chocolate bars, and bury my head back under the blankets. I ask Jesus to join me because I don't know what else to do. The force of illusion knows no bounds.

Sifted, surrender, symbols. Watching Jesus from behind, I witness trial after trial. From what place inside did he respond or act? From which deepest realization did he dwell and move and save?

Though both are flyers, the Aviator is not the same as Icarus. However, no matter which way you slice it, I am the one on the ground looking up.