Saturday, May 02, 2015

Holy gratitude to skymothers

Antiphonal chant we started singing in the Valley.

Thank you
—Thank you
for the rocks
—for the rocks
and the things I take from you all the time
—and the things I take from you all the time.

Improv the melody and meter off each other's cues while walking or holding hands.
Slowly learning how to pray without praying and worship without worshiping.

Found a wand, too, as it fell on me from a nearby tree. She didn't hold it for a few seconds before she said, "This is a magic stick, isn't it?" She said it felt as though it was jumping at the end, bouncing on its own. I said it might be a worm or ant inside, and I thought about these jumping beans I once saw at South-of-the-Border off I-95 in South Carolina.

But it might also be ordinary magic.

That's the scariest part for me. Either way, crazy or sane, there's little back there for me. I know too much to sit in a pew or a plastic and metal chair and wait for secular miracles or bourgie reforms to reveal the hand of the LORD. But I know too little to know who else is out there negotiating with the unseen, the older, the spiteful, the deceivers, the charitable, the dreamtimers, the others who watch us.

So there's at least no harm in being courteous, thankful, and honest.

But also: suspicious, cautious, and questioning. They watched us for years walk through the Valley before they started to ask real questions of us.

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