DAY 1/10 #quietthechaos

How long has the machinery of our days been shaped between such heavy hands? How much depends on the definition of a word? Task, list, achieve, complete.

Open your hands. Let loose the doves clasped within.

What is a “Monday,” really, when it looks like a Saturday, or a snow day? What is a “calendar note” when triaged to three items, only one of which really matters?

Outside, the deer are nibbling crocus greens and the hens’ feathers fluff, aglow. Your son in the kid-carrier on your back, the tiny sounds of his mouth, chewing. The two of you on foot now, dodging imaginary enemies. “Mommy, I will push the germs over with my body. I will knock them into the poison ivy!”

And so we write letters. We make soup. We ask who needs help and do what we can from this small corner with these arms that can’t seem to reach far enough. All day long we play, which is also to say we pray, building “fleeting temples” as we quiet the chaos of this #pandemic pandemonium …

// We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.” //

(from @dlameris poem, “Small Kindnesses”)

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