Today's Prayer: Eventually

Eventually, I will be there, Lord.

The world will not stop when I arrive, nor will there be tears of happiness

because I paced with the clock’s spinning, because I negotiated the earth’s tilt

Stone Guardian, Paris

and clung within the gravitational hug,

hearing laughter emanate from grandfather’s belly.

I will arrive, eventually, and Wisdom will turn her pages

pointing to words printed, painted, sung –

throat to ink, scribe to typesetter, to the scanned document

I open and enlarge. Should I bookmark it? Will it wait for me

    until . . . until . . .

Eventually, I will return,  Lord.

In the vestibule I’ll place my coat and turn,

before I close the door,

to view the evening glowing behind the neighbor’s house. And I will arrive

to visit, eventually, on a day marked on the calendar, designated – for

I must mark, ink, post, save word and breath

to stop the tilt of the moment

and release to

my neighbor, Wisdom,

You.

With me, You are.

Wisdom and my neighbor are

at my right and at my left.

Seated, I stop my spinning,

present with You.

Things forgotten and found

I found a small 5.5 oz jar of Marionberry jam in the back of the  refrigerator when I went hunting for the smell that told me something had been forgotten. There it was, next to a bag of rather slimy veggies that had migrated behind the eggs on the narrow shelf. These things happen when I am distracted with work and school and things that are immediate. So, the little jar of yet-to-be-consumed flavor must have settled into a corner of my brain. I woke, this morning, remembering June's morning air in the cabin, and the soft light that filtered through the back window. The musty pine and moss shadows in which the cabin sat which held me, curled in the sleeping bag, settled on me again, even though I am months and a continent away.

Another three inches of soft snow has fallen, this morning, on this winter's crusty landscape of snow and ice that layered itself, 6-weeks-deep, and holds us in her shell. I am cramped and trying to stretch, ready to peck and claw my way out. Remembering the Oregon mornings is actually helping me settle into this closing hurrah of winter. The tulips I am forcing have 4 inch leaves. The orchids by the landing window have swelling knobs on the old stems. The newness of what is yet to bloom smooths a new layer of awareness over what had been layered in ice. Like a memory acknowledged each day in my prayers, the special petition tightly folded in the offering bowl, a dull ache embraced and released, I return to the flavor of the jam - the forgotten gift - and savor its smooth brightness.