Friday, June 5, 2020

Old Testament Intensity

Perhaps there are no paths? Spring arrives oddly predictable, yet I can't escape this longing to sink into the river. Yesterday I walked two miles to its deepest swiftest pocket, perched on a rock and studied the currents with Old Testament intensity. Chrisoula wakes me to cry because of news from Greece, and I cry with her, both of us lamenting preventable deaths. In the garden, spinach breaks the dark wet soil, while on the horizon, dappled clouds pass like horses who have never seen a predator. The wind, my love, the wind! As a child I disliked churches but in my early twenties I grew ridiculously obsessed with them - stealing hymnals, copping quick feels with Kate in back and side pews, praying publicly, et cetera. When night falls, we pour cheap wine, and toast our integrity which always risks a dangerous poverty and has at last come face to face with its tormentor. So much happens without me, like growing up and dying, like winter disappearing later in April than you'd like. Is that a phone ringing? A letter arriving? One traces their hand on paper, then waits a long time to be clear: is it okay to color and what color shall we choose. The bottom, my dear: it rises to meet you and carry you home.

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