Sometimes, you have to grit your mental teeth and force the images to land so you can pull them apart. The world is a damaged ship, listing dangerously starboard. Your longing to prove or fix something scratches like a cat on the screen that protects your soul, and your selfish nature hides in the weeds, rusting and jagged–a trip hazard and destroyer of lawnmower blades.
“Morning,” your Coauthor mumbles in a sleepy voice.
“Coffee?” you offer, calm on the surface, agitated inside.
Coauthor nods, reaching for the sugar.
“What do you have in mind for today?” you ask.
“The usual,” Coauthor shrugs.
“But I don’t feel like being generous,” you say. “Or patient. Or kind.”
“How’s the joint pain?” Coauthor asks.
“Tolerable,” you frown. “How’s yours?”
“I’m always inflamed,” Coauthor admits. “And for that, I’m grateful.”
Usually, your Coauthor is clear-eyed about ailments, victories, ice cream, and the dying coral reefs. There are costs for doing business with fickle microbes and solar storms. That which can be altered is miniscule, and even if done well, evolution will occasionally circle back and bite you in the butt. That’s why most Coauthors look so chewed up most of the time. Chewed up, surly, and weary. Okay, maybe not surly. That’s more you. But weary and wounded. That’s for sure.
Your Chewed-up Chum checks the weather. Rain. Flood warnings. Wind. But later, things will clear, and there will be a deep peace that passes all understanding–which is a good thing because your current understanding is so slow that a tired donkey pulling an overfilled cart could easily pass it by. There’s nothing poetic about bombed-out homes, repeated migrations, or starvation. Nothing. Maybe you could approach the devastation symbolically, but that might make it harder. You simply don’t know.
“Understanding is essential and impossible,” Coauthor says. “The you that you think of as you can grasp only fractions of the puzzle. The complexity is beyond your fleeting singularity. Just find a corner piece and hang on.”
“What does a corner piece look like?” you ask, feigning innocence.
“Oh, you know. It’s rounded on the edges. The nobs point inward,” Coauthor grins enigmatically.
You rub your rounded belly and consider the risks of real, expansive connections. In the past, you’ve tried to force puzzle pieces to fit. Bad idea. You limp away, limp back, limp away. Each time your view expands, your energy diminishes.
“The capacity for compassion depends on being broken. Sometimes, more than once,” your Coauthor says in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Stir your coffee,” you sigh. “The sugar’s sunk to the bottom.”
“Thanks,” Coauthor says. “But I like it that way.”
Short visits with an honest God 