I feel most of what I have written in the last forty days has been about mortality: the releasing of what is known, secure, predictable to open an aging hand to what is uncertain, dark, and mysterious. The invitations offered by these prompts have reminded me that I fully and completely embrace that invitation. There have been some media headlines lately about how we might one day be able to cheat death after all, and I glance at them and think “Why would we want to?”
There is a goodness to the bounded life: Life with a beginning and an end, at least in its familiar form. There is a readiness to close even the most magnificent symphony - in fact, sometimes what makes it magnificent are its final resounding chords. The delicious dinner that closes with the last bit of dessert as we push back our chairs; the triple “Alleluia” at the end of the Easter Vigil; the final squeeze of the hand by our life-long Beloved, breathing out for the final time. I for one am grateful my life is bounded. I figure on another twenty years. Both my parents had less. But there are things happening with our planet that I don’t want to live long enough to see.
I write this in the day between the worst that could happen (Good Friday), and the story of astonished amazement to experience Christ living again, passing through darkness and death.
“This is the night, when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell
and rose victorious from the grave.”
I will sing these words in a few hours, and my skin tingles with their meaning for life now.
And this season of writing ends today also. It’s my third participation in one of Robin’s offerings and this has been the most satisfying experience because of this lovely little community that has developed around these prompts. I will miss you all. Your offerings have touched me. I have learned from you. Perhaps we will find one another in another season of writing. If so I will give a little exclamatory cry of pleasure. Like migrating birds, we fly together for a time, and then apart again. Whatever the algorithm that moved us into a flock, we can put “Murrelet” on our resume. I did not even know the word before Ash Wednesday this year. and now I am one.
If there is a neighborhood for Murrelets in whatever comes beyond this one, I hope to connect with you there. Come visit. I’ll make you tea and feed you fresh bread.
In the meantime, there is power to boundedness, like a strong stream running through high banks; like the red waters of the Rio Gallina as it courses through the red, gold, and purple canyon of my soul-home. This too is mortality.
“Time, like an ever rolling stream bears all its sons away
They fly, forgotten as a dream dies at the opening day.
O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come,
Be thou our guide while life shall last and our eternal home.”
This too, is life.
The Holy One bless you all.
Canyonwoman, signing out.
— Canyonwoman
There is a goodness to the bounded life: Life with a beginning and an end, at least in its familiar form. There is a readiness to close even the most magnificent symphony - in fact, sometimes what makes it magnificent are its final resounding chords. The delicious dinner that closes with the last bit of dessert as we push back our chairs; the triple “Alleluia” at the end of the Easter Vigil; the final squeeze of the hand by our life-long Beloved, breathing out for the final time. I for one am grateful my life is bounded. I figure on another twenty years. Both my parents had less. But there are things happening with our planet that I don’t want to live long enough to see.
I write this in the day between the worst that could happen (Good Friday), and the story of astonished amazement to experience Christ living again, passing through darkness and death.
“This is the night, when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell
and rose victorious from the grave.”
I will sing these words in a few hours, and my skin tingles with their meaning for life now.
And this season of writing ends today also. It’s my third participation in one of Robin’s offerings and this has been the most satisfying experience because of this lovely little community that has developed around these prompts. I will miss you all. Your offerings have touched me. I have learned from you. Perhaps we will find one another in another season of writing. If so I will give a little exclamatory cry of pleasure. Like migrating birds, we fly together for a time, and then apart again. Whatever the algorithm that moved us into a flock, we can put “Murrelet” on our resume. I did not even know the word before Ash Wednesday this year. and now I am one.
If there is a neighborhood for Murrelets in whatever comes beyond this one, I hope to connect with you there. Come visit. I’ll make you tea and feed you fresh bread.
In the meantime, there is power to boundedness, like a strong stream running through high banks; like the red waters of the Rio Gallina as it courses through the red, gold, and purple canyon of my soul-home. This too is mortality.
“Time, like an ever rolling stream bears all its sons away
They fly, forgotten as a dream dies at the opening day.
O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come,
Be thou our guide while life shall last and our eternal home.”
This too, is life.
The Holy One bless you all.
Canyonwoman, signing out.
— Canyonwoman
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