Tag Archives: stories

The Great God of Should

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idolI can hardly sit still. My spirit is jittery, anxious, chattering away with irrelevant noise. I am afraid of not being able to do what I have committed myself to do: too much work, too many projects, too much responsibility, too many obligations.

I shudder before the altar to Should. Great God Should, my master, my hard taskmaster. High and lofty Should – you are an altar made of my own fashioning, covered with my dreams, like sheets of pounded gold – strong, overbearing, threatening my doom. My own hands have made you, but I cannot find a way to take you down. Continue reading →

School

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schoolI come today to a schoolroom: wooden floors, old wrought-iron desks with wooden tops and inkwells, a slate black board, like a room from a museum. This room carries the echoes of an even older classroom with rows of benches, a pot of clay for tablets, and a stylus by each seat. They are quiet now, no students squirming in their seats, no teacher rapping on her desk or master tapping his foot on the floor. But there is an echo of the grand enterprise that inhabited such places – the task of wrapping minds around fact and turning it into knowledge. Continue reading →

Twin Paths

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campfire and sparksI am seated back a bit from the fire. Around me are other travelers, all weary from the walk of the day, glad for a rest, glad to be together. We are an odd lot, tossed together by happenstance (if there is such a thing) and by the juncture in the roads. Now, nestled among the trees just off the roads, we sit together.

Those around me who are talkers are telling their stories and I, a listener, am listening. The stories weave in and out among each other and there are common themes and nods of understanding. We have opened our packs and bread has been shared. We nibble at the last of the crusts, for we are full but the crusts are good. Continue reading →

The Dust of Prayers

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inside an old cathedral As I walk a cobbled street, I come upon the door of an old cathedral – slightly ajar. I walk up the stone steps and push it lightly and step into a cool, dark, quiet space. It is coated with the prayers of ordinary saints, the hopes of generations of work-a-day people. Continue reading →

Sister Grace

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bread lineThere are so many things that concern me. They stand in line at the back of my brain waiting their turn to pester me. They push and jostle and twiddle their thumbs. They threaten and cajole. Like folks in the bread line in the scenes of the great depression – they stand in sepia-toned sameness, tattered at the edges, always in need.

And now that I have turned to look them fully in the face, I am overwhelmed. I, too, am in the photo. I, too, have ragged edges and a gnawing need. I, too, have my hat in my hand and my eyes full of empty want. I, too, am begging on the curb. Continue reading →

April Fool

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IMG_1468“So then, lets go.”  The traveler is beside me.  He taps his staff upon the ground. I have my staff in my hand as well, and my pack upon my back.  So we strike out together, toward the wild. He is humming to himself and I am holding my heart tightly in my hand, hoping and hoping not to fear.

We walk for quite a while. We are down the hill into the bramble.  The call is before me and the traveler is striding quickly and I am doing all I can just to keep up. Continue reading →

We tie

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tree in meadow 2I step over a fallen log as I make my way across the meadow. It is nestled beside a giant oak near the top of a hill and provides a quiet place to rest a bit.

As I sit down, a small brown stone catches my eye and I pick it up. It sits in my palm like a little leaden weight, pressing down – solid, sure, real. I roll it around in my fingers and move it from hand to hand, feeling its substance. Continue reading →

It’s Christmas

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nativity sceneThe door opens and the innkeeper kicks a couple of old sacks aside and pulls some extra straw from a loft and leads the donkey to another corner of the room. He throws a rough wool blanket at the young couple and hold out his hand for a payment. He rubs the coin and stalks away.

“Joseph,” Mary whispers. “I think that it is time.” Continue reading →

Home for the Holidays

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sepia-toned photo of christmas treeI have been trying to fix in my head an image of what “home for the holidays” means to me.   It’s pretty easy to remember what it meant for me as a child. I have lots of sepia-toned memories — you know the ones that have been pushed so far away by time that they are more memories of memories now. Continue reading →

Dark Wood

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a tree against a dark skyThinking, thinking, thinking
Wandering, wandering, wandering
Hoping to find the solution in a pristine idea – and knowing it cannot be done
Reality is not about truths, but about relationship

About true relationship –
One that honors each identity fully and yet finds the deep resonance between them
That makes each one more
Love is the deep truth that emerges, because love is the source of it all.
Continue reading →