Father and Son

My father called me last night. Not normally a big deal, except for the fact that I live five hours in the future- which he knows. Those calls always make me nervous: one time I got a call like that to tell me my grandmother had died; another time my brother had fallen into a coma, just dropped into a grey purgatory between life and death, a green leaf swept along by the breeze. So, when these calls come, I am petrified. I will call my father back today and see how he is. I promised him that we would write together, so we will. Poems, letters, whatever he wants to write. For me, what’s most important is to save his voice so that even in his passing something tangible is left with those he has entrusted to carry his fire.

Building a Cathedral

I’m carrying around a sketchbook in my head. Thousands of pictures waiting to be downloaded and edited. I can’t wait to share them, but I get so caught up in what the final product will or should or could look like that I never really get to see what is there. I am building a cathedral from the soil and rubble and vibrance of all that I have. Between eating and reading and listening and observing I know that the mountain that I am staring down is actually an edifice of worship and reverence to the divine. All I have to do is carve it out. So, today I begin the process of excavating the stones, choosing the bones that will hold everything that has wandered with me through the various wildernesses I have crossed.

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