A Sparrow Oblivious

The rain pings the window to my left and the house rests. There are so many things to do. The contrast of the stillness, the silence hums a lovely tune to the melody of falling rain streaking jagged rivulets against the backdrop of a reliable, perpetual drumbeat toiling a rhythm on the walls of my home: “do this now! and that! and!” Surreal.  

Schools shut down yesterday and stayed down. The slightest bit of icy rain and all is quiet. I’ve loads of time to do. Or not do. And a weekend coming up on me with my children. And. Go. Go. Go. Soccer season soon. Essays and. Professors who won’t let me end a sentence in and, even if a period lands. It’s. Life.

I sat in the quiet this morning and perused the headlines. It’s unavoidable. I had mail to check and there was the glaring news of the missionary in Haiti. The woman with the scarlett F on her chest. Take your pick. She’s probably Fundie. Or Flawed. Or Failed. Or Foreclosed. And she’s definitely Foolhardy. According to the news, that is. I sat there shaking my head. So much for human. Why is it sticking in my mind? Do I feel the F’s on my chest too heavily this morning? It’s not like I went to Haiti and absconded with children for their own good. Maybe it’s not a good idea to psychoanalyze every damn thing, eh?

Let things rest.

Where does this post go, then? Where do any of us go with the contrasting forces pulling on our lives and asking for equal time or, often, domination? Stay. Go. Rest. Flow. Work. Plan. Balance. It. All. Out. And.

Oh let’s not forget to add: Start over. Learn to trust again. (what? whom? life? them?) Stay serene. Find the simple joys. Grin at lost writings and hope they rise from the grave with a hallelujah on Saturday. (Nevermind the dead bodies in the crypt over there whispering of lost loves.)

Wait. That’s supposed to happen on Sunday.

It’s amazing, isn’t it? How one person can eek by with a squeak and a scheme and come out smelling like roses in spite of the less than stellar history and another can concern herself most of her life with taking care and still land in a pile of um, yes. Note to reader: Don’t be misled, I’m grinning. It makes for an interesting read. It depends on your level of compassion. It begs you to ask what you reveal by what you don’t. And then it has no answer that can truly be relied upon because the story changes as soon as the press groans.

Ever just feel cryptic? Like life is rigged? And the poem refuses to spill because you’ve got too much log-jammed up inside to begin to do anything but spew.

But life. Somewhere between the rigged gigs and the skewed headlines is a pinging on the glass, rhythmic falling down a streak of sound and the resurging gurgling call of singing back there behind the magnolia, a small sparrow covering us all up in an accidental grace, painting timeless refusals of shame and colors alive revealing face no story can hide. Nothing rigged. Nothing faked. Nothing surreal. Just the melody unrestrained and calling out the courage to make a go of it again, whether it looks good in the long run or not, whether it ends happily or not, whether it ascends into heaven or rots. All from a sparrow oblivious.

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12 thoughts on “A Sparrow Oblivious

  1. what a brilliant story wow, loved it, sull of imagery, excellent, I hear your having trouble getting my blog up, hope u are able to now, it may be I was working on it last time u visited, have a great day 🙂

    • i’ve tried 3 times now, william. i suspect it’s this laptop but i’m going to try again now that i’ve re-booted. i’ve had quite the adventures with pc’s lately and am just glad to have a bit of productivity anyway. i look forward to exploring your world. and gee, you hail from one of the better layers of my ancestry so i really MUST check out your blog. 😉

      • hey…just tried again. all i get is white with a sidebar on the left and a bit of red band header at the top. hmmm….i bet it’s this laptop…way too old…i’ll try again on a different pc when i have the opportunity. peace…

  2. “covering us all up in an accidental grace” – and a tear falls and I think about how we would sit and have tea, perhaps sigh and then laugh, if only you lived down the street.

    • aye, sister. if only. i’m holding to the belief, a faith that my world will hold such richness at the most a town away. this exile that is my life is deeply blessed by your presence. and we would, jaymie, we’d laugh. oxo…

  3. Great question – is life rigged? I recall, as a child, my mother telling me that I would never be rich. Why would she tell me that? She believed life was rigged – and she was probably right. Actually she was right and wrong, and then right again. For the briefest moment I was rich: And then, with a stroke of the pen, I wasn’t again. But what a glorious moment that was.

    • My mom always told me “life’s a drag, Ruth. when you figure that out you’ll be happy.” Erm. That didn’t work too well. It made me more insistent on the possibility that life’s meant to be a joyful jaunt. Rigged, though. I really am torn on that question. It’s so cynical, for one. But there are moments when I do feel it’s true. And it’s those moments that nature brings me back to a place of newness. Rigged or not, it doesn’t matter. Outcomes and schemes, plans and dreams can all rot for all I care. I’m barefoot in the moss and there’s a bird hailing the sky. As it turns out, I’m really just a diehard pagan at heart.

      If I could go back in time and erase that proclamation over you, I would. Your mom meant well, I suppose. But gee. Possibilities abound.

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