At Church

There is something about rose gold light on a late Sunday afternoon hitting a patch of Queen Anne's lace. It may be my undoing. I am walking with the paradox of loss and the feeling of being filled up at the same time – by the breeze against my body, through my body and the rustle of leaves in the trees. Again, I am reminded of how afraid I am to open to the beauty of this world – the exquisite pain of the beauty, or maybe, I am just now confusing this with awe. I throw the wizened face of half a dried up old walnut into the stream asking to know my own wholeness. I throw a baby acorn in, offering up again and again my connection to you. I just, somehow, will not let go. The quiet. I touch the lace, and as it rests in my fingers, I wish I had my phone with me – a perfect new cover photo. I feel the shame in this. At the same time I am so grateful that I am carrying nothing with me. For it is enough that I alone see what is before me, that I witness the delicate white – some faces newly opened, some still gathered and pinched – not ready. As I walk, a rabbit flees at my approach. I touch the pines. Cicadas and birds match pitch. Synthesizing. The tucked away stinginess of my heart unbends, but the opening, the giving permission to feel it all brings forth a whispered and uncertain, "Oh, God." The light shifts (though it will be hours before dark) and I move on, heading home for dinner.