Sinnerman

Listening to Nina Simone tonight.

There are words in my fingertips, but I can’t yet find them in my mind.image

My spirit has been quiet since the weather turned crisp.  I’ve been walking and walking.  I find coffee.  I go through my day.  With smiles and joy.  Pierced by the heartache of another soul lost to gun violence.  Sober with the knowledge that this Mother Earth I love so much, which grows within my very bones, is endangered by our humanity.

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Yet, my spirit has been quiet since the weather turned crisp.  And there are words in my fingertips, not caught on my tongue.

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I look at an apple and see the miracle.  I look at these human smiles.  And I see the miracle.  I catch him watching me walk—Tall.  And he shyly pretends he wasn’t looking.  And I don’t give too much credence.  I’m praying to be content with simply being noticed because heartbreak is fierce.image

My Beloved sees me.  He watches me walk and walk and walk through the valley, along the creek.  And there’s a miracle in that.  The miracle of love and joy in communion with God.

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My sleep has been short each night.  Not conducive to my daily needs.  There’s been little studying.  There’ve been so many flights of fancy.  Imagining, dreaming.  Of ways to engender peace and healing in this universe.  Of ways to love and ways to dance.

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There are words in my feet.  Being spoken with movements of power and authority.  Boldly walking.  Not backing down as he notices me.  Speaking words of humility through courage in the very act of taking one step, then the next.image

My spirit is fine with this.  It’s fine with the slow.  It’s fine with the simplicity.  It’s thriving in the cool harmonious rhythms of fall.  Of learning to die to receive the life for which we yearn.  Of contentment in the now.  Of noticing and walking and writing and dancing and praying and silently watching miracles.

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There are words in my fingertips yet they won’t grace my tongue.  And my mind conceives not of their meaning or their purpose.  It submits to the calm of the spirit and the words of the dance.

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We’re not so separate from the leaves tumbling down the street, no.  We are one and the same.  We find nutritive meaning in our death.  Dust to dust.  We know our flourishing in life is but one of many rhythms.  And that’s the miracle.  We find meaning in the admiration of the appreciative onlooker.  Dancing and clapping for their wonderment.

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We find words in our veins.  Words so silent they must be sung.  They must be danced. They must be impressed through the meaningful intentions of an artist with charcoal on paper on leaf.

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We live the miracle.  With spirits quiet.

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There are words in my fingertips, but they won’t tell me their secrets.

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