An odd dream of black Mormon women controlling the Postal Service from the Moon wakes me this morning. The New York Times is, of course, “itself” and embodies the same incoherencies as my dream.
This madness will retreat, of course, as I anchor myself in concentration. Neither dream associations nor the news deliver the longed for Divine Order. But Divine Order is at work. My surroundings are still. Faint sunlight. The call of a mourning dove. Ignoring Netanyahu, the trees and bushes bud. The noise of a crumbling civilization does not signal anything high no matter the vast technologies and moneys that bring me news of them.
Settle out. Calm. That steady hiss in my ears means silence. No wind. The temperature is over 40. Deep breath. A kind of sleepiness steals over me, but B will wake now any minute and her cup is ready to take up filled with water boiled in our hi-tech Sunbeam device calculated to perform in 1 minute and 28 seconds. Breathe again…. The ragged clouds of madness have, indeed, already blown away. The animal has quieted; it sensed a superior and reassuring presence.
The resurrection of the Lord today: a potent, hopeful symbol even if we see no hint of it anywhere in a paper that today reports on a search for Jesus’ bones.