7-7-17

My apologies to anyone accustomed to a god-blog appearing more often. Time has slipped by, and so has God. I can’t seem to be at the right place at the right time. I know the rascal’s been coming by—calling cards are scattered outside the doors, tucked in crevices, pinned to trees. They float in the sunlight like ashes after a fire. At night, I hear footsteps. But I’m never sure. Never quick enough. So I’ve been going it alone, living on inspiration borrowed from the sunflower growing between the boulders in the front yard.

Today is 7-7-17. Maybe God is in the 7s. Or the nearly full moon. Or the succulent stalks of asparagus shooting aggressively from the bed of weeds by the new garage. Or the giant sculptures just over the hill at Tippet Rise, declaring the difficulties of creation. We know the devil’s in the details, so maybe God is in the broad strokes or the deep inscrutable waters where undiscovered creatures live with no light or air, no awareness of the shores, stratospheres, and barbeques above them. There is only the below.

Perhaps it’s better to know less—to have a tight little vision that extends barely past my skin. To think only of how to make my own atmosphere rich with reassurances and perfectly timed caresses. To scream obscenities at anything that intrudes, trying to destroy all unsuspecting protrusions of reality. Hard to say. Perhaps it’s better to believe only what fits in the quart jar where I keep my cold-brew coffee and my darkest fears–to grab whatever sleep is available, and dump dreams—even fragment of dreams–down the drain in the morning.

Perhaps.

But unlikely.

If there is a below, there’s an above. If there’s a limit, there’s a gate. Or a hole, or a tool to make one. If there’s a sunflower growing between the boulders, there’s a God scattering weeds, her fool head thrown back in laughter, fangs sharp and white. She’s to blame for driftwood and death, my finite mind, and the biochemical bleakness at 3 AM. But I still like her. I’ve made some minty water in case she stops by when I’m home. It’s been unusually hot. I imagine her drinking with relish, smacking her lips, making light banter while lifting my guilt as if it weighed nothing at all.

But for now, I’ll carry the heavy armor. I like the illusion I’m tough as nails.