We bear the weight of the Lord, and we cannot tell any other story.
How quiet the hay loft is at 3 a.m., the past so far away it can just barely be sensed.
Watering the garden alone at dusk, needing this life to be another way, as always - still - learning to live.
Spider webs on the electric fence, no sign of the spider, what doesn't turn me on.
Crickets in the pasture, for those with ears.
Chrisoula's new obsession with fireflies, both of us near midnight outside watching them, discerning the code, all of us together a light undoing the darkness.
What else was underfoot at Golgotha.
One's theology unravels, one stops looking for any bottom.
Swimming slowly through the lake, the shore receding, growing old.
Now we are organized, what does the boss want?
Flowers I cannot name, dreams which pass mostly unnoticed.
We who do not disdain our role as messenger.
Briefly four a.m. is holy again, I stand outside with coffee beside empty Main Street, the cosmos breathing me in and out.
Falling asleep before we can talk about our day, that sorrow.
In my heart are many salmon refusing the upstream push.
Abhishiktananda's insistence that being was communal.
She wakened something in me, and loved it as Grandmother loves the bear, and we deepened and became beautifuler accordingly.
We are revealed in sex, pried open by lights that long to extend themselves.
Even to think about looking for Jesus obscures the means by which Christ is revealed as our identity.