Something About the Journey...
I've got a burdened post brewing about foreign policy (not the government's, but yours, and mine). I think I'll wait until I get back for that. Might do it while I'm there. We'll see.
I planted some herbs yesterday, and prayed a farmer's prayer, my dusty untrained hands hating the hurt I must be causing in my lack of experience. Now, spearmint and lavender sit outside in the fog and the rainy blessing falling out of the hidden heights of sky. They're only tiny black seeds, promises under earth. I feel more like praying for them when I think of them. The haphazard gardener has stepped into the path, surprised to find it meandering so well-worn. I shall leave them to Patience, and she will come to me. God bless her, the hard-nosed quiet woman, bending me like a river bends a tree.
From this whole period of recalling what happened at work, I've found that it's really strange to see your own blood on the ground, red and bursting with desperate life. I keep remembering God's instructions to the Israelites
You must not eat the blood, because the blood is the life, and you must not eat the life with the meat. You must not eat the blood; pour it out on the ground like water.
And now that, too, has been redeemed. For my flesh is real food, and my blood is real drink. Goodbye for now, dear friend. I will see you ere the waxing of the gibbous moon.