Saturday, August 18, 2018

sprinkler season

He would let the world do its will, and thereby accomplish the will of the Father, he would grant the world its will, thereby breaking the world's will; he would allow his own vessel to be shattered, thereby pouring himself out; by pouring out one single drop of the divine Heart's blood he would sweeten the immense and bitter ocean.—Balthasar

August is the month of sprinklers: of spinning water wheels circling brown lawns.

I sit in the lake, and troll around in the sand for rocksI was always on the hunt for pretty ones back in the days of six and seven, and here I am at twenty-six, floating rather aimlessly in the clear blue lake, on the hunt again for pebbly stubs of beauty.

I sit in an office and remember all the office-y things: wearing the right clothes, keeping up with TV shows and the headlines so there is something to talk about, filling co-workers in on weekend plans and events. So much of doing is embarked upon solely to be able to make conversation.

If all our activity is simply for the sake of community, what if, I wonder: all extraneous activity were suddenly dropped, shaved awaywhat would become of this community then? What would it look like as it lies naked. I feel a little naked right now.

I run with my dog in circles around the park where I once saw a snake. There are no snakes here, just one giant symphonic sunset on the crest of the hill. We watch it together, as he pants and rolls around in the cool grass.

I lie in the grass of the small neighborhood park, and I watch the martens dart darkly through the light blue sky. I watch the ants crawl over the purple mountain of my water bottle. I read a book on cotton. There is not much here that has changed.

For an oasis moment in the August desert, I lie in the grass, and I am happy just to be here. I have exhausted the summer exuberance for growth and green. I am wilting, a bit, in the heat. Each day, the task of finding meaning is a full-time job. I am spent.

This is good.

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