Monday, February 6, 2017


There is something to this. I'm caught up in the stickiness of it so often these days, that when I realize I'm standing midstream in "spiritual" phenomena I'm already in the act of catching my breath.

Mr. PNU listens to me preach on about it repeatedly, all the while warming the choir bench. Nearer the beginning of the problem I was handed a ball of yarn, and I held it, believing because I was told the ball of yarn was what there was to be believed. I may have even tried to drop the ball of yarn a few times out of resentment that I couldn't disbelieve. And then the stroke happened, and it was like I found the loose end of the skein. All I had to do was give it a tug; the whole thing, layer by layer began to unwind, even when I didn't want it to. The harder I thought about that tightly wound ball of yarn, the faster the skein unwound itself. My husband nods. He's been dealing with unspooled yarn for much longer than I, "faking" belief because he couldn't re-spool the individual strand into a ball again.

Belief systems are a mysterious thing. I think they provide lenses through which we can see the world like a sliver of refracted light. All the varying forms of belief are like a collection of complimentary and contradictory small t truths. And I haven't decided yet if my unravelled skein of yard is yet another frequency in the stutter of what is, or if I'm getting closer to truth that wears it's T in all caps.

Whatever is, it continues to speak in the dialect I was taught belonged to spirit. It hums like a plucked string. It communicates in an array of light perceptible to the heart, when the mind only understands the synaptic jumble as wondrous to behold.

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