Last night we sat in a circle.
I and this room full of older women (and one man).
The chit chat of the early evening rolled
around in big blue waves,
menopause
and the AARP and for a moment,
I, feeling quite alien
looked down at the floor
in nervousness, in shame.
I hurried to catch my breath,
having run late once again.
In the car I inhaled a grocery store sandwich
picked up on the way and my
pulse having long since quickened with the thought of tardiness.
I studied my green and blue plaid
ballet flats,
the veins poking out of the tops of my feet indicating
a deep need for rest and then
Marcia lit the chalice
and I was sucked back into the room
and my breath slowed,
my pulse paced itself,
and the weight of my life dissipated.
In my exhale, the quick of a match,
the burst of flame, the space became, officially anyways,
sacred.
What in the hell am I doing here? I thought at first,
just as I do every week
but deep in the end of my pinkie toe,
I that knew besides with you,
resting here in this circle of women,
in the arms of all that is sacred and holy,
is where I belong.
Process theology was the talk of the evening
and buddhism, hinduism, and sufism.
Emerson, modernism and postmodernism too.
The Oversoul.
The Whole Soul.
The Whole world.
Everything in it including
you and I
wrapped up together into one giant,
sparkling,
web of life.
I don't get it, one woman kept saying and inside,
Inside I shook my head a little
Because I always seem get it, deep in my bones.
For me it's easy,
in that circle we speak my favorite language and
if you listen close enough,
God is there.
I drove home in silence,
the smell of truck exhuast on the freeway unable
to dirty my thoughts and
up over the hills there to the West
the moon hung high in the sky like a small silvery white
eyelash
falling on some cheek of the world
holding us safe
and I felt God then
and thought of you.
