Ash Wednesday
My concentration is shot. Shot! Today has been a series of pleasant, productive encounters. Almost non-stop action and my back is still aching from the cold I began in earnest yesterday. Two girls argue over a card game three feet in front of me; one recently patterned herself with bright red polkadots, declaring herself full of chicken pox and unable to attend school in the morning--now she is well-bathed and trying to plaster tape on Charley the dog's mouth. So you'll excuse me if I cannot access profundity at the moment.
Still: there's the sound of rain outside, broken by the sound of cars rushing home from work to various homes; there's the smell of rosemary in the bouquet on the counter just beyond my computer, paired with some nodding red and white blooms that I can't identify but that, two days ago in the park, astonished me with their color despite it just being early March. There's the memory and promise of the fields full of congregations of robins, hopping around as if greeting each other after a long grey winter (I almost expect to see them sporting name tags) and there's the background rhythm of these words in my mind: From dust you were made and to dust you will return. . . .
It is Ash Wednesday, the day when we recognize that we are as breath in the air, a flower in the field. I remember watching gaggles of Catholic students filing back to their seats after a service, chatting about crushes or homework or whatever it is concerned them, and I remember the stark reality of ashes on their smooth foreheads. Shake them, shake them, tell them, "Don't you know--you'll die someday?" At that same school, a young student of mine took his own life by shooting himself through the head. He had long, silky black locks and the other kids teased him and the principal told him he should cut his hair. Still I am astonished that so much life, dwelling in muscles, bones, words, and laughter could cease so suddenly, so easily, too easily. From dust you were made. . . .
And yet, I say like Issa, And yet. There are secrets in the limbs that look so dead during winter and spring so very easily to life again in spring. Secrets to unlock and hold and treasure, secrets that give me the confidence to dwell in Ash Wednesday. . .and yet.
I think I'll write my way through Lent. Wherever you are on your journey, whatever you think about Lent and all that surrounds it, you can't go wrong sitting silent and listening for a few moments every day. Join me!
Still: there's the sound of rain outside, broken by the sound of cars rushing home from work to various homes; there's the smell of rosemary in the bouquet on the counter just beyond my computer, paired with some nodding red and white blooms that I can't identify but that, two days ago in the park, astonished me with their color despite it just being early March. There's the memory and promise of the fields full of congregations of robins, hopping around as if greeting each other after a long grey winter (I almost expect to see them sporting name tags) and there's the background rhythm of these words in my mind: From dust you were made and to dust you will return. . . .
It is Ash Wednesday, the day when we recognize that we are as breath in the air, a flower in the field. I remember watching gaggles of Catholic students filing back to their seats after a service, chatting about crushes or homework or whatever it is concerned them, and I remember the stark reality of ashes on their smooth foreheads. Shake them, shake them, tell them, "Don't you know--you'll die someday?" At that same school, a young student of mine took his own life by shooting himself through the head. He had long, silky black locks and the other kids teased him and the principal told him he should cut his hair. Still I am astonished that so much life, dwelling in muscles, bones, words, and laughter could cease so suddenly, so easily, too easily. From dust you were made. . . .
And yet, I say like Issa, And yet. There are secrets in the limbs that look so dead during winter and spring so very easily to life again in spring. Secrets to unlock and hold and treasure, secrets that give me the confidence to dwell in Ash Wednesday. . .and yet.
I think I'll write my way through Lent. Wherever you are on your journey, whatever you think about Lent and all that surrounds it, you can't go wrong sitting silent and listening for a few moments every day. Join me!
Comments