Start at 1:10 to skip the announcements.
Before we begin:
I was considering adding a paywall to this newsletter, but then I remembered that you can Buy Me a Coffee instead! Like what you’re reading? Follow that link and treat me to some sugar or caffeine. Sharing the link to this Substack is always appreciated as well.
I realized that I’ve missed…. writing…. on…. theology…? Will try to post monthly. Send suggestions for topics my way. If not a written piece, then I’ll at least send a playlist.
I’m still looking for a job! Help me! No, seriously. I’ll consider nearly anything at this point.
Back to your “regularly” scheduled content.
a blessing is a hummingbird, even if that hummingbird wears a gas mask, even when that hummingbird flutters behind glass.
when you trap yourself at a frigid desk, you resentfully await the taunting of the tiny, furious heartbeats that purr around 3 pm.
so, i pressed a greasy ear to the window today, listening for the prickling of its little (preening) (suffocating?) heart.
and all i heard was my pulse, thickly laid upon the glass. preening against a pallid gelatin film, diffuse tremors like a handprint through shower vapor.
there it is, the gas mask and –– then –– that heartbeat. i can hear in myself what i always look and listen for in other things. i hear it when i play roadkill, kicking up my legs and arms toward the spiders on the ceiling. i hear it when i stoop to kiss my cat and grow dizzy as she stalks off. i hear it in my sleep, this blood rhythm thrumming on my pillow.
that’s the blessing of a hummingbird smudged by glass, a hummingbird in a gas mask: they reveal our blood rhythm against the dense cold of our chambers, growing colder for the cruelty of this season. even a hummingbird in a gas mask, its pulse threatened by record heat and pollution, finds nectar to sip because that is what it must do.
it’s no small thing at all to close your eyes and attend to the survival beat of those ever-warm drumtides. what a miracle it is to hear those red rivers in me, another hummingbird in a gas mask. fluttering as i can, sipping as i must, survival is a blessing indeed.
a blessing for you, if you are a hummingbird too:
Creator, Fullness of Spirit, we bathe in Your Waters with our friends and our stranger-kin.
May we emerge with renewed trust in the community You pour upon our feet. May we submerge ourselves in Your puddling gifts.
Together, we spin tough-and-glittering fibers from the stories of old, stories only just discovered, fabulous stories, horrible stories, stories unraveling at this moment.
May we continue to test the strength of these threads against sharp elbows and bullets. May we continue to wrap our bones and fat and sweat in tales of softer tomorrows.
Creator, we tend to the brokenness of our worlds with transformative skills: prophetic wisdom, sober compassion, like the treesitters, pealed laughter, merciful confrontation.
May we inhale gratitude as we count ourselves among generations of activists and artists who dared to speak to You in the scarcest of seem-times. May we exhale hope as our many good works build upon Your many good works.
Our sorrow and lament ring as true and as deep as our joys and laughter.
May we imagine –– and reach –– uncommon harmonies for the tones and timbres that ripple from our ministries. When we cannot bear anything but silence, may we receive the whispers from our veins as a guidesong.
Our wildness reflects Your Waters, our hearts reflect Your Image.
Let us move with Your markings upon our hearts, today and every day.
May we create with Your love in the present world and in the worlds to come.
May it be so.
Post inspired by a linocut print done by @BobertYork.
