I guess we always pray for progress. And most of the time we feel we achieve it. Save a few backslides here and there. The one thing about blogging, and writing in general, is that on occasion, you feel like you can’t do better than what you once did. Do other artists and makers feel this to be true? It’s too true for me, measuring up against my former self again and again.
I am always arrested by Holy Week, or have been so for the past couple years. The time for me is as visceral as it is life-giving. An incredibly personal journey through sorrow, silence, and redemption. I wrote about it two years ago, and it was perhaps the best I will ever be able to do. And I (ugh, reluctantly, and dragging my feet) am becoming okay with it.
A Holy Week Remembrance, reposted from Raison D’Etre.
He drank the wine, ate the bread.
One day later, the curtain rips in two. And that blood, that flesh transcends the finiteness of natural bounds.
A great wind of tempest spirit charges over the earth, as the blood drips from his side. It breaks the ground open, swallows the hearts of men.
Maybe it was this day that the world first rotated on its axis.
Life in all its complex, enigmatic meaning was spawned, thrown from the mouth of his wounds. The fracture severs deeper and deeper still to the molten core of this soil- between what was foretold, and what is promised and yet to come.
There’s a realness here, in the humanness of this act. It leads to a palpability of the spirit, an access to the divine.
All our fleshes are the same. His and mine. Mine and yours. Each manifested by this omnipresent force, regardless of personal acknowledgement. It covers the land like a blanket, and in the disconnect of terror and misfortune, it hints that redemption isn’t over.
This pregnant creation is waiting still for deliverance. So the spirit calms us now, and one day, when the sun falls below the earth, and the King returns, it will carry us.