Winter has departed but the green
of spring hasn’t yet arrived. The woods are just sitting here. Waiting. Black
trees sticking out of a layer of brown leaves.
Not much is going on. The
woodchuck is still hibernating. The deer haven’t come through in quite a while.
The birds stopped coming to the feeder and are foraging somewhere else. And
don’t get me started on the owl that’s been on vacation for six months.
Everyday the woods look the same, although today fog is drifting through.
I like to be there in the
time after because of the presence I feel sitting on a wooden pew in the dusk
of that cavernous space. Red votives flicker up front. Stone pillars rise
around me. Stained glass windows on the side glow deep blue in the last light
of day.
This is what we have after the celebration ends. Memories.
And hope.
I am not much for parades and
grand celebrations. I’m more interested in the people standing in doorways after
the parade has passed by. This is where most of us live. On the edges of life. Battered, bruised, broken, yet believing there is a way through the darkness. Living the days of ordinary time when there are no
parades.
I like to sit in the forest on
a wooden log and be surrounded by trees rising above me, by something greater than myself, something mysterious and powerful. Real.
In the woods, in cathedrals,
and when I listen to people share the struggles and triumphs of their lives, I feel
the movement of the sacred. Into this darkness, the morning's light is coming.
May I linger in the wild, unkempt places that remind me life is deeper than what I see.
As I walk the road with
strangers, may we share our lives with each other in honest humility.
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