We shall let what is holy be holy.
We shall make no assertions that contradict holiness, ours or anyone else's. We shall not worry about the moon in the sky.
When the horses gather at the gate to be fed, we shall bring them hay and speak to them in low tones of our gratitude and amazement. Love shall be the lantern of our shared Greek dawn.
We shall let our childhood be healed by not insisting it be other than it was.
Where mountains rise like cut stone into orange skies we shall kneel, and where the waters lap green and leafy banks we shall stand and open our throats.
The two-note spring song of chickadees becomes us.
Wind as it rustles in the low tangle of violets becomes us.
For have we not asked and been answered? Have we not opened our hands to make a home for the light? Have we not read the bible in full, each page going blank before our eyes?
Do we not have eyes?
Beloved. I will not worry that I cannot say where the moon will next show up in the sky.
I will not worry do you see the moon as well.
All appearances are blessed. All appearances are themselves the light in which they are perceived: this is the blessing. There is no seam. Division is the Lord another way.
It was ever thus. We leave the church for another church and learn there are no churches.
Walt Whitman caroling, determined to leave out nothing. Thomas Merton listening to himself pray and loving what he hears, despite knowing how fractured the prayer is.
Emily Dickinson listening to the Lord, humbled by what she heard, ruined by what she learned, going over and over back to the well, even after it had crumbled and blown away.
Dandelions, milkweed. Snake skin.
Every mile between us has more than one poem to it now. This is the distance we made: the highway we cannot cross for every step lengthens it by one more step. This is the mansion in the sky where we run from room to room crying.
This is Hansel saying "not again."
This is Gretel trying in vain to remember what she swore she would never do again.
This is my heart, this is my prayer, this is this morning's writing.
This is the hungry witch, her tea cup filled with moonlight, crooning a song the tulip bulbs taught her.
This is the dark that knows it is light.