Language, that original sacrament
Last night I texted my daughter.
“Sorry.”
“?” Confused, it was all she could text back.
I tapped into the phone what was busting out of me. “From Padraig O’Tuama. Religion, conflict, power, and poetry all circle around language, that original sacrament.”
“Oh cool!”
“I love beautifully arranged words that speak to a deeper reality.” Heart emoji “Love you mama and your love and gift of words.”
“Sorry. Sometimes I can’t keep the beauty locked inside!”
“You shouldn’t!”
Especially since the pandemic, each new year has brought a hint of apprehension, rather than anticipation. Perhaps it’s my age. Or that in 2022 my infant grandson spent 15 days in the hospital, kept alive by a tube, not much bigger than dental floss. It kept him alive and thankfully today he’s fine. Another loved one was not so fine and passed away.
Last night, we had a terrific thunder and lightning storm; the flash of light through the plantation shutters came exactly with a rattling of the house and the boom of thunder. I expected the power to go off.
It didn’t.
A small parable to me, perhaps, that any dread for 2023 should fade unless soldiers need to be called up. They’ll surface if needed.
In the meantime, I’ll look for that lovely bouquet of words to fill me with joy, and hope, connecting me to others who feel the same.