It has me in its sway, and I don't even know what it is.
I set my mind to wriggling loose, blending in, passing unseen.
I want, again, the bliss of ignorance.
Christmas was harder than I thought it was.
I tried to squeeze what was into what is, what is into what was.
Looking for the delicate bridge between.
Finding instead crooked paths and angel wings, and a west-facing waterside.
Where I could scoop, sift, sort through the smoothness of well-worn words.
Blessed be God ...
In unity, constancy, and peace ...
With gladness and singleness of heart ...
Sometime in those last days, I joked with Mom about recording her saying that -- Oh, sweetie -- so I could play it back in all the moments I would need it.
I didn't do it.
I thought I'd be all right without it.
I thought it would be enough to remember.
I was wrong.
But not long ago, on a cloudless day of blue, I looked out the window to see a handful of white, a wispy bit this side of the mountain.
Mom! A surprise of exclamation, and then I chose to stay and watch instead of run for my camera.
The cloud started to dissipate as it passed by the window, lessening, fading, letting go. It is so hard to hold form, and I could feel even the effort of the words. And then she, it, was gone.
In the empty sky, though, was confirmation: Yes, it is hard. It is hard to be spirit in this dense world overfull of matter. It is hard to be in time and space, bound in a body, bound to other bodies. It is hard to remember home without wanting desperately to be there.
Sometimes, it is just hard.