No
Sweat
(“When they
enter the gateway to the inner courtyard, they must wear only linen clothing.
They must wear no wool while on duty in the inner courtyard or in the Temple
itself.” Ezekiel 44:17)
Buffy Sainte-Marie said
that time is the magic length of God
and I believe she is right. What if time is a straight line,
running from the bees to the hive and to the next century’s meadow.
But lines have no dimension, so therefore contain nothing.
Or everything.
and I believe she is right. What if time is a straight line,
running from the bees to the hive and to the next century’s meadow.
But lines have no dimension, so therefore contain nothing.
Or everything.
“No sweat,” they said.
“Just follow the pattern and the fabric perfectly.”
But what if time is
rounder than that? What if bee and flower and hive
thrive within the circumference we call the clock. Seconds and minutes,
they don’t carry watches,
and the meadows arrive on the scene before we’ve taken the time
to see them.
thrive within the circumference we call the clock. Seconds and minutes,
they don’t carry watches,
and the meadows arrive on the scene before we’ve taken the time
to see them.
“No sweat,” the replied.
“What you seek is less precise; more implied.”
But what if time
is angular like that? What if it ricochets off every cell
and stays inside the hive until it boomerangs with a bee to the purple meadow.
I was stung once twenty years ago, but I can feel it today. And the honey;
every variety dances across time like a cardiogram. And, just like you,
I invent flowers with my thoughts, pictures of tulips from Amsterdam.
and stays inside the hive until it boomerangs with a bee to the purple meadow.
I was stung once twenty years ago, but I can feel it today. And the honey;
every variety dances across time like a cardiogram. And, just like you,
I invent flowers with my thoughts, pictures of tulips from Amsterdam.
No sweat,” they laughed.
“Please take your coat off and stay a while.”
I met them halfway,
still wondering how to measure God. Could I
put a tailor’s tape around God’s waist and now the dimensions of the divine?
Could I ask the bees who understood nectar, or the lavender who
seduced the bees? Would they mind if I assessed the length
of their life by mine?
put a tailor’s tape around God’s waist and now the dimensions of the divine?
Could I ask the bees who understood nectar, or the lavender who
seduced the bees? Would they mind if I assessed the length
of their life by mine?
“No sweat,” they opined.
“We also have been weighed and found wanting.”
What if time is more
like weight, and I carry the burden of generations?
What if the plight of the man I’ve never met is connected to my ancestors?
What if God sees the same cruelty and crime as thick as a cotton-picking sack?
What if God carried the mass of it all (and its width, and its essence,
and its pretense, and its violence) like a cross. What if the racist,
the nationalist, the slave owner, the crusader, the president, the shopkeeper,
the police and the beaten are all wrapped in the same teardrop of time?
What if the plight of the man I’ve never met is connected to my ancestors?
What if God sees the same cruelty and crime as thick as a cotton-picking sack?
What if God carried the mass of it all (and its width, and its essence,
and its pretense, and its violence) like a cross. What if the racist,
the nationalist, the slave owner, the crusader, the president, the shopkeeper,
the police and the beaten are all wrapped in the same teardrop of time?
What if your sufferings
and mine meet like bees and lavender?
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