Thursday, August 23, 2018

holy ghost in lilacs

God is gone from the world, and we have had a hell of a time trying to get him back. The spirit blows where it wills, and its winds have swept off the coastal ice shelf of the end of our deflated, flattened earth.

We’re not in good hands, we’re barely in any hands at all. We’re not thrown into or extended above the nothing, we are buried in it. When the hands of God feel not even angry but simply absent, the world rattles with a sort of uselessness. The water reflects the brilliant blue sky sparkling through the thick summer trees—but what’s the good in that? The water is simply a muddy puddle in a flooded patch of unkempt grass.

The hands of the God are the soft ones of the stranger who snaps my finger joints back into place, who senses fear and tension leaking down my arms and into my wrists, and whose deft fingers squeeze it out with gentle pressure. The intimacy of the nail salon is jarring, but soothing. Jarring, because it highlights how healing from other people is so accessible. Any of these common strangers around you can smooth out the wrinkles in your sadness with quiet care. The comfort of other humans is much nearer than we think.

The hands of God are the ones covered in dark hair that lift you out of the valley, not by carrying you, but holding yours as you walk, that provide a steady pace by which to move forward with a prudent and passionate consistency towards the good you know is submerged beneath the shimmering mud.

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