Chicken Little could have scratched for worms, hatched chicks, and lived out her life unperturbed. Instead, an acorn fell and hit her on the head, and she determined the sky was falling. She grabbed her purse and ran to tell the king. Other hapless poultry joined the histrionic procession. A wily fox lured them aside, took the contents of their wallets, and ate them. The fox returned to the castle. “I love conspiracy theories,” he exclaimed as he posed for pictures of himself playing golf. “I’m a fantastic poser,” he said to the photographers. “If these portraits don’t measure up, you’ll be my next meal.”
The Grapes of Wrath
Acorns and apples, peaches and pears. They fall. What we make of this is not all there is to the story. Fermentation is an option.
The flesh is willing, but timing is everything. The bearing of fruit, oh the delicate dance of chance and bees and early frost. So much is lost along the Way, trampled under foot or eaten by gleaners, birds, and bruins,
but seeds have the final word. What appears to be in ruins is fodder for the sprouting.
Of course, there must be rain.
There must be rain. And it must fall hither and yon, far beyond what you’ve ever considered as anything you could love.
We’ve laden the sky with satellites, weaponry, smoke, and terror. These things will fall back down to bruise our bodies, scorch our lungs, and worry us to death.
We’ve misplaced our feeble hope. It dwells in the eternal churning of very troubled waters.
Using passive sonar, it’s possible to estimate the depths of these waters. Humans arrived without fanfare or legs, and newborns are mostly water. It’s tempting but futile to sacrifice your tongue to walk on land searching for love. Tempting but fruitless to kill the troubling albatross. Ask the Mermaid or Mariner. The penalties are steep. “Water, water, everywhere. But not a drop to drink,” laughs the Plagiarist. “I’ve placed valves in your heart, so the blood only flows one way, thus saving you from the ragged passions of retrograding and regret.” “And I’ve created flumes to route it back.” I reply. “This time, the sky is falling.” “There’s no such thing as sky,” the Coauthor laughs. I notice the gleaming teeth. “You’re going to eat me, aren’t you?”
As the Coauthor takes my hand, the ice in my veins begins to melt, and we wade through the slush toward the table, set for two. I realize that we are each other’s meal. “Shall I order wine?” the Coauthor asks. “Sure,” I nod.” The intensity of a Petite Sirah sounds good.”
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 