We are the irises beneath a blanket of dead leaves. We are the grass turning an electric green and the delicate blossom on the apple tree signalling the come of spring, we are recreating.
We are recreating something new out of something old, with a shedding of skin, or a shovel and trowel, we are building something from nothing as prophets foretold, we are composing.
It won’t be the same as ever it was, it won’t be the same and it shouldn’t because the wisdom of ages is breathing into our lungs a deep breath from the earth laced with repentance and dust. We are dust.
But for a moment dust mixed with saliva and spirit, the potter took in His hands and giving us His image to inherit and a garden, both growing and decaying, and we are called today to the task of recreating.
I awoke from a dream when the sun rose this morning and a whisper in a hush echoed its message of warning, “Beware of the mark of the wounded you’re claiming, for such a mark will eclipse your call to recreating.”
And I sat here in silence, at this lonesome kitchen table, remembering the voice, and asking if my true self was able to rise from this place of broken-hearted vigil, Am I sound? Am I strong?, Am I the hero of this fable? The one who keeps toiling when the sky turns to grey, chopping and building and living for the day? Am I clear-headed, am I thoughtful, have I a compass, a navigator? Am I wounded? Am I helpless or am I a recreator?
I am the iris emerging from a long winter slumber, I am free (within reason), a feather , loosed from the weight I was under. I am sitting in the sunshine streaming through my south window, with an AMEN an Alleluia and then end of the vigil.