Reassurance is hard to come by these day, but immediate dense caloric intake helps me cope with the onslaught of morning news. Not long ago, breakfast included a half bottle of dark beer, but it isn’t worth the hassle anymore. The untouched supply of porter in the pantry speaks to the acute nature of the troubles. A swig or two of leftover wine is about all I can handle.
So tell me, kind companion, how is it with you in the morning?
I’m trying to accept my fate, but I cannot wait to be a bird. I’d like to be a magpie, but a crow or raven would be fine. Sparrow. Starling. Even an Arctic Tern. I just need wings and an internal map that reveals the direction of each season. Also, if I fall from the nest, the Big Hand will be there to scoop me back up.
Some may assume I’m referring to the hand of their God, but I’m not. The merest touch of those exclusive Gods leaves a dangerous odor that risks rejection from the protective flock. Like anyone who makes meaning from ancient texts, I twist scripture, hoping to curry favor with the Source and thus ensure an orderly eternity.
Tell me, beloved, how is it you curry such favor?
The Good Graces have gone missing. There are grave implications for a universe careening out of control. Harsh, lonely, and forever. No maestro. No emcee. Therefore, I’m learning to speak the languages of stone and helpless infants. Of microbes in the soil. Of fatted calves, long thin beans, and garlic.
Tell me, friend, what languages are you working on?
In my native tongue, I ask repeatedly about the saving of us all, but things remain inconclusive. We’re not easily preserved. We’re shaped like eggs with shells that break from within and without.
We drape ourselves in colorful flags to signal unity: Queer, straight, soldier, snake. The Jolly Roger, Old Glory, and the Union Jack. Loyalties rigidify. Edges fray.
Tell me, cherished one, is belonging worth the cost?
Today I will partake as I’m able and drape myself in whatever comes. It may be the blessing of purple linen or the banality of polyester. Most likely, it will be the wrong size. I’ll roll up the sleeves, pin the waist, and tighten the buckles. Or rip a seam to ease the pressure of something too small.
Someday, I’ll need nothing but feathers. With bones hollowed and wings unfurled, I’ll rise up, gracefully negotiating the downdrafts. This is what I’m awaiting.
So tell me, my dearest, what is it you’re awaiting? And what is it you believe?
My downhill acceleration is alarming some days, but I reduce the gravitational pull by using switch backs and sensible shoes. God is one of my better switchbacks. She decreases the angle of decline and therefore the risks of freefall. Even though she refuses to make anybody immortal, she doesn’t mind being used as a switchback. Life on earth is unpredictable; sometimes brutal, sometimes disappointing, often too short, on occasion, too long. It is a brief opportunity to practice being kind.
I’m watching a couple of male deer lock horns in the snowy field, but I’m their only audience. Wisely, the females are focused on breaking through the crusty snow and grazing while they can. Sheltered in place, I like the visibility of dirt in the vacuum and the splintered wood with tough knots and gnarly twists waiting for the fire. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Day to day. Hand in hand.
On the other side of the pell-mell race that will never have a winner, the shimmering Now is a breakfast of excellent coffee, a blueberry scone, a vision beyond my nose, and the kind of silence that holds no threat. No demand. No promise. No direction. Only an abundance of breathable air.
God has moved into view carrying my best boots. She kneels and helps me slip them on. She’s shoveled a path through the snow that leads toward a certain horizon, but I linger over my scone. “Don’t make me move,” I beg God. “This might be the last blueberry I’ll ever taste.”
“Yes, it might,” God agrees. She pulls my snow pants down over the boots and tightens the drawstrings at the bottom. “And it might not.” She pats my thigh. “Either way will be fine.” She points to the hills and begins to die the thousand deaths required of her every day. She’s running a temperature, struggling to breathe, and there are gaping holes in the ozone.
On 9/11, the passengers on Flight 93 decided to bring the plane down rather than let it crash into the White House or the Capitol. Passenger Todd Beamer was recorded saying, “You guys ready? Let’s roll.” With whatever they had at hand, they stormed the cockpit. Right now, the cockpit is filled with plastics, poisons, hatred, and greed.
“Breakfast is over,” I say to my well-clad feet. “Let’s roll.”
Short visits with an honest God 