We gather the children, the tender and shy, the mischievous, lead them to a jagged beach to find their treasures of stillness while their own parents settle into the meetinghouse to gather Light. We let the children wander between piers, time dissolving into moistness. One boy with purple hair releases reticence to be mesmerized by washed up logs, crabs squirting at low tide, a turquoise glass float with Japanese script. A girl in her brilliance gathers fistfuls of pebbles and hesitance, flings them skyward. The rocks pause mid-air, then plunk to the sea like notes on a xylophone. She leans toward the water, ears cocked, eyes gleaming.
Blossoms open this first Sunday after the full moon and vernal equinox. These periwinkle foot soldiers of spring fill our garden, a blessing of color after long-barren soil, a harbinger of more bounty to come. This year as always, they surprise, like each holy day. Renewal doesn’t happen just anytime, but when tender shoots uproot flower beds of despair and failure, cover undergrowth of plans that no longer fit, replace withered brown stalks with spaciousness and grace audible in the soil we patiently till.
We’ve seen pictures of the moon turning the color of a martian desert. We know it will be as full as a mother about to give birth, and exactly what time the faintest sliver will levitate just above the horizon. We don’t know we will forget that which is not quite surprise or mystery, but like nothing we’ve ever seen. That on this dark night we’ll heat leftover meatloaf, pour wine from a box, settle in with reruns of China Beach. Until we hear neighbors murmur, gather on street corners pointing their children east. We are meant to be fulfilled on this earth, marvel at our luminosity. On this good night, moondrops stir thistles, replace our own umbra.
checks boarding passes, matches stoic photos with faces, gives the IDs back. Her soft, manicured hand lightly brushes our roughness, waves us on. Here we are america, a gliding current wending around velvet ropes toward the far shore of the next checkpoint. We are fluid, move as one organism. Two retired women in dashikis say the line moves more quickly this bright October day than in the slant light of winter. A young woman with rice paper skin pushes twins in a stroller, propels a diaper bag with sandled foot. Spanish flutters rhythmic wings, lands on shoulders of men with cowboy boots and women with gold hoop earrings. I stare, because we are exquisite. A party erupts, right here on the concourse. We shake and shimmy to “I Feel Good” and “Oye Como Va,” fill our bellies with doro wat, tabouleh, my mother-in-law’s sticky rice, a splash of sake´. We go all night, miss our flights and don’t care, sweat and song our destination as we rise from rusting factories, stifling suburbs, crumbling projects, crumpled cornfields, dense barrios. Suddenly, the music and our security end. We take off our shoes, put belts, laptops in gray plastic tubs, pass through the body scan, re-claim our personals.
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