It's raining. Not far off I can hear the sound of thunder, soft and muffled. It's the thunder that takes me back to childhood. Back to the desert. I don't have the sophistication with words to tell you perfectly what it means to stand alone out there and watch the steady advance of a storm. But you would have watched the thunderhead build for some time and noticed the lightening flickering inside. The shades of sand and sage would deepen as it moved overhead. I always loved the rain and thunderstorms. In the desert they could come suddenly and be gone again within minutes. There's a long lost friend who would know what I mean, she knew these storms, but in Texas. Most of the time it would've been weeks, maybe months since the last good soak. When it's over everything is still and quiet. Rain droplets shimmer like jewels caught on spider webs, only to evaporate moments later. The first to stir would be the horned toads coming out of their hiding places to lick drops of wetness from the underneath of vegetation. Birds find puddles to bathe in and fluttering wings send up sprays like miniature fountains. Magic, all of it. And I, little mystic in the making, would stand in awe. That was God. That was my religion, what nature could show me.
When it rains I remember who I was then. I mourn for that little girl for a while, tell her I'm sorry I didn't keep my promises. And then I thank her, because she saw me through so much; isolation, stark and lonely, and fear. She is the bravest person I've ever known and I swear I don't remember where, or when I lost her. Was it when I left her beloved desert behind for the sandy beaches of the Gulf? Did the switch from saguaro to palm break her heart?
Within this twisted fusion of voodoun-catholic-buddhism I find my way, building little altars and shrines. Illustrated fragments of a life. Pieces of a face, bits of a mind, the echoes of a heartbeat. Papa Legba will open a path if I feel trapped, just draw his veve in the sand. Light a candle for novena to saint Joseph, he will protect my family. Fractured. Patched-up. The sacred mixed with the profane.
Just when I think I can't find her on anyone's records, I see her staring back at me in everything I do.
11:51 p.m. - 2007-09-14
Recent entries:
meanwhile - 2016-08-10
interpol wants my cacti - 2016-07-31
6:58 are you sure where my spark is? - 2016-07-30
armchair apocrypha - 2016-07-29
less everyday - 2016-07-27
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
nineofswords
marn
tarkis