DiaBLOGue

Every Tuesday morning, sky dark, 
I rise to the temple. Today, by the 
time we reach the Garden, the 
actors need help with their lines. 

The lost daughter woke up 
and returned to herself, 
and determined she no 
longer wanted to be lost, 
and determined to 
return to her Mother. 

One time, in the temple, 
after looking, and smelling, 
and asking, and listening, 
a quietness spoke back 

A ring of women 
Spontaneously gathered round 
Willing hands outstretched 
Gently pulling, untwisting, unbraiding 

Hello, God, small and obscure, distant twinkly point of light. 
Perhaps, you are the portal and I am the time. I long  
thought the other way ‘round. 

Her favorite is the whisper of slippers on plush carpet. 

Her favorite is the window of stained glass, jewel-bright, reminding her 
of a wildflower field and that cathedral in France.

Redeem these altars 
Whereon divine parity 
Was sacrificed. 

I walk into the baptistry 
In our modest, midwestern temple 
Eager to fold fluffy towels 
Into their honorable offerings. 

Before I clothe myself in the holy garments of my grandmother’s priest-
hood, my hands thin cocoa butter over the veins of my temple. 

I have to protect my skin.

The beach is my temple, 
The water the voice of God shooshing toward me, inviting, calm,
The stones the decorations that light the fire of the pillar,
The sand the handshake that draws me to the holy of holies.