Gods are so innocent they wait for praise like children.
Praising, dear one, let’s be generous with praise.
Nothing is ours. We set our hands lightly on the necks
Of unbroken flowers….
--From Elegy by Ranier Maria Rilke
Here on the homestead, we make granola
and resent each other when the supply dwindles.
Making granola isn’t difficult, but once done,
it seems like it should last indefinitely.
And don’t get me started on the challenges of kefir.
There are living organisms involved.
It’s nearly as demanding as sour dough or the chickens.
As the years roll by, we tell ourselves we deserve a break.
We want to engage in leisurely travel,
create praiseworthy works of assemblage art,
write profound treatises on profound subjects,
and land a bestseller. But time dwindles.
We rush home from our trip to the dump
to feed the kefir grains or cover the squash seedlings
due to the impending frost.
Our fantasies rarely align
with the mundane demands of existence.
And who praises the mundane?
“How do you do it,” I ask Creative Force, my voice a little testy.
“Do what?”
“Let go. Remain background to the false foreground.”
Creative Force dissipates into a remarkably long exhale.
“Come back,” I beg.
A barbed silence ensues. Edgy. Meaningless.
Sometimes, I imagine communal life
as a way to lighten the load. Many hands.
Light work. In these sepia tinted dreams,
I’m the Godmother of a magnanimous mafia
dedicated to extorting the good in humanity,
offering protection from existential angst
for a modest fee. There are flaws in this vision.
Sometimes, we invite neighbors over
to eat rhubarb banana bread and join us
in our search for the essence of life.
But they rarely come.
Perhaps it’s the wording of our invitations.
Rhubarb is not a crowd fav. And they have pets.
Children. Unfinished businesses.
Or ailments that impede movement
or prohibit such topics of conversation.
Creative Force has reconfigured themselves
into a small flock of sheep grazing by the river.
I approach with caution.
“Are you here to eat grass?” I ask.
Our pasture is overgrown; the grazing would be a gift.
I yearn to gaze into those liquid brown eyes
and offer unconditional adoration,
but they don’t even lift their heads.
A sudden, wrong-headed hunger overtakes me.
Humans cannot convert grass to protein.
To quell this rising panic, I begin the long trek home,
aware that I may perish along the way. I accept that.
But I am also aware that there’s a chance I’ll make it
and there’ll be a little granola left.
For now.
For which I shall offer praise and thanksgiving.
*************
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Short visits with an honest God 