Prayers
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Feet On The Path
Through the door, I watched our little female possum, Noelle, as she ate her supper tonight. Her pouch hung quite low, touching the tips of the wet grass. I remarked on this and my wife said with large eyes, “We can’t have a bunch of baby possums running around here!” And I responded, “Well, why not?” Tomorrow I am leaving to go on a holy pilgrimage, one that I have been contemplating for quite some time. I haven’t decided yet, but I may write about it when I return. The night is heavy now, and so are my eyes, and so is my heart. And the darkness always passes……
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Which Station Is She?
I saw her when I arrived home tonight. She had been in the same place last night when I got home, at the fence outside our bedroom window, in the shade of the massive pine tree. A new calf was with her then, but tonight, the cow was alone. She was lying down in the rough grass, her flanks smeared with dried mud that had crackled into geometric patterns across her dark hide. Her black face was coated with crawling flies, and foamy drool dripped from her mouth. The calf was nowhere that I could see. I approached the fence slowly, staying silent because I know that human voices spook…
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Savoring The Weariness
The weekend is ebbing and I’m sitting here, freshly showered and dressed in clean cotton and winding down, waiting to get sleepy. It’s a marvel that I’m not already sleepy, because I am bone-tired. But not because of physical exertion. A little while ago, I went out and picked some okra, re-tied some of the heavy-laden tomato plants, and watered all the flowers and vegetables. The humidity is hanging in the air like gray tulle, and I sweated heavily merely standing still with a garden hose. I needed the shower, but I didn’t tax myself. No, I am weary because this has been a weekend spent thinking, spent deep within…
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A Cup Of Day
Bruce Charlton continues to post things that work my mind and raise speed-bumps in front of my thought processes. This morning’s selection from William Arkle’s writings was a gem, a perfect way to start my day. On the drive to work, I found myself immersed in easy, free-form dialogue with God and in the idea of “What does this day hold for me? I don’t know, but whatever comes, it’s for my good!” With my personality, this is a rare thing and I am trying to enjoy it and sustain it for as long as I can. So thank you, Bruce, for so many things. ~ S.K. Orr
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From A Near Distance
I stepped outside before dawn this morning to listen to the first birdsong of the day. Standing in the damp grass, I drew a deep lungful of sweet air and kept still, listening, listening. Off in the northern sky, traveling south by southeast, was what I first took to be an airplane. But the light was over-bright, had no flashing lights, and was traveling at a very high and steady speed, like a lethargic comet. I watched the light until it was gone from my sight, and then I went back inside and fetched my phone to check my suspicion. And there it was. An app on my phone confirmed…
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June Into July
There he is again, above me, half-watching me as I am half-watching him. As I write this, the hummingbird is on the telephone wire over my head, his tiny feet curled around the wire, his baton of a bill moving left and right, conducting the orchestra only he and his kin can hear. The summer day is hot and still, and much quieter than the summer Sundays of my youth, the sultry days down in the Delta when the reedy drone of locusts and katydids stretched across the hours and surprised you at night when it began to fade. Quieter here, yes, and perhaps not as hot, but hot still.…
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The Unquiet Mind
This morning’s lectio divina reading highlighted this verse: The things that thou hast not gathered in thy youth, how shalt thou find them in thy old age? Ecclesiasticus 25:5, Douay-Rheims version Thinking through the implications of the question, my mind is unquiet. How shall I find those things I neglected in greener years? And how many of those things are there? ~ S.K. Orr
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Trying To Make It Home
When I arrived home from work, I fed the dogs and was puttering around the house, doing a few chores, when our small dog began woofing. Not barking, but woofing. A soft, short woof that she likes to utter particularly when she’s perturbed at something. When the woofing went on for more than a few seconds, I went to investigate. What I saw was this: A little rabbit, seeking shelter from the rain that had just started blowing in, was trying to make friends with our dog through the glass door. Our dog woofed a few more times, but she seemed content to mostly just sit and stare at the…
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Sitting Outside The Gates
This week marks the one-year anniversary of two deaths. The contrast between the lives of the two dead people is more striking with every passing day. The first was a young woman from an affluent background. She was sullen, self-absorbed, and from what I could see, cruel to her family. Her parents had done everything they could to usher her into adulthood, providing for her material and educational needs, and supporting her frequent and wildly unrealistic ideas about what she wanted to be when and if she grew up. When she died, it was what coroners like to call “death by misadventure.” The remaining question for her family and friends…
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The Last Sunday of Spring
This morning when I went outside, it was just a bit warmer than it has been the past few mornings. Yesterday, it was chilly enough that my wife and I had blankets on our laps while we drank our coffee. The humidity is creeping back in, though, and this week will likely be an end-of-spring-in-the-Appalachian-mountains mixed bag of balmy humidity and hit & miss showers. My frosty-faced old dog let us sleep in just a bit this morning, postponing her jaw-creaking yawns and face-slathering wake-up call until after dawn had slipped its leash and spread rose-hued light across the tops of the poplars. I accompanied her and my wife’s pooch…