One day the door groaned and broke, and, almost blind and stupid from decades of banging, I fell through it into a new world—a vantage point flooded with light and warmth, from which I could see doors and paths around the doors, from which I could see warm hands and the Source of every hand, from which I could see the breathtaking landscape and the end-goal of every path. This poem is not my liturgy because even when “God” was not part of my spiritual vocabulary, that vocabulary was not limited to “head,” “door,” and “hand.” It included also “why.” The analysis of the relationships among heads, doors, and hands. The unwillingness to stop at acceptance. The refusal to go on banging on doors, hoping only for a stroking hand, without a grander reason, a structure, a purpose, an ordered universe. And so I screamed and prophesied and broke the door and only then knew, why.
Tag Archive: hand
May 23 2012
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