When the pause came, we were not ready. For centuries we had done all we could to become busy; maximizing every moment of the day for pleasure and worth.
There is the juice of a lemon. Squeeze hard, rotate, squeeze again. And zest, there is goodness too in the zest. But go further and there is the bitterness of the pith. One mustn’t consume all. The world is a closed system, and though all gods are myth, sacrifice and offering are real. Take, but give. Leave something behind.
And we were all take.
And we were comfortable. Efficiently gobbling up all, with a wake of plastic and tonnes of carbon in the air. Why tonnes gets two extra letters than its solid-state sibling, I will never know. There is something poetic and emphatic nonetheless. Nonetheless. Nonetheless. Notwithstanding. Nonetheless.
And we were all in on the take.
Carried by a momentum. Momentum carried us, like a whirlpool of our own pushing. A public pool of pushed waters.
And once again, the primordial arose in the swirled soup.
And as progeny of our imaginary ancestor Adam, and the rank and file of our mechanisms, we gave it a name. We gave it a number.
And in an interconnected world of disconnect, we saw our commonality, which of course was all a matter of interaction. We breathe the same air. We are each other’s breath. And we are not well. We are not well. In invisibility, but with name and number, we disconnected more.
We took a pause. But we are not good at pausing. We’re good at very little that is good. Good takes so much effort, while whatever the opposite is comes as easily as puckering from a lemon. But we’ll not be giving nearly as much of a squeeze at this point. Not at this point. Let’s see how we emerge.
And in our pause, those with eyes—as the old phrase goes—saw what we had become for the sake of missing it, then understanding the value of separating from it. It. Us. Me. I. You. Us. When I was a rosarian this would be a luminous mystery, and that was an offering I enjoyed making every Wednesday with Sister Eileen, who was soft and steady, and when she said “peace,” she let the final sound resonate as if someone had played a final note on a piano with their foot on the pedal. PeaCeeee. If she’s still alive, I’m sure her prayers are for PeaCeee, and for those with eyes to see. To see. To see. How luminous.
The rosaries that we said together in the chapel of the Most Holy Rosary—catholics are nothing if not devotees of superlatives and infinitives—the rosaries we said, like all rosaries, are hypnotic, trances. The words blur and there is a pause
to step outside of time
For the sorrowful, joyful, luminous, and all else which I have forgotten which may or may not ever return. The gifts of pausing are like that.
And in this way, the offerings and sacrifices have been preparations.
And I am left to wonder if wonder will come of all of this. What will be luminous. What will be joyful. What will be full of sorrow, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. What will be forgotten, and may or may not ever return. Ever return
When we resume.