I am imbalance.
Light heart, heavy head.
I don’t arrive.
Not that there’s much of an destination.
By conquering a question, discovering an answer,
am I this much holier?
My extra knowledge, a nice wad of afterthoughts.
My practice, pathetic.
Some Crown of Creation.
Imago Dei, in me.
My cynic chuckles.
My cynic a little too persuasive.
God I know you well enough to know what you want for me.
And I know you well enough to know that you’re it.
Humming, sputtering, groaning, singing.
My holy wrestling match and I’ve run out of breath.
My light heart,
My heavy head,
too full of half finished projects I fear I won’t finish.
I want some quantity,
some sign of arrival.
Some measure to tell me why yes I do believe I’m growing.
I really think I need to strangle my cynic,
I’ve let her stay too long.
Because thank God I can’t quantify my holy shots in the dark.
The point of my wrestling not that I win.
The projects I begin, the questions I ask,
I’m pretty sure there isn’t an end product here.
Bind me ever close,
hold me ever near.
You fill lungs, bodies, people,
cities, countries, Earth.
Breathe into this one.
A daughter that hasn’t gotten it yet.