Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Tiny Taste

Communion is tiny. 
Like the pinky of a newborn baby, her nail so minute you can barely see it at first glance.

Receiving is a gift to be cherished. I walk away my hands crossed awkwardly, my eyes on the floor. Do I bend my elbows? My breath is short, shallow. I feel dizzy, lost in the crowd, the never-ending ocean of strangers waiting their turn for the same beautiful gift.

The taste of wine always seems to linger on my lips.
Sweet and Warm.

My tongue moves around nervously, not knowing what to do or where to go with such a distinct, tiny taste. Impulsively, it rolls over and over at the roof of my mouth, allowing my chin to dance in circles obsessively.

Communion can be lonely. 

Sometimes I dread it, my feet gaining weight with every step as I sometimes grudgingly force myself to the front of the room.

I like to watch the children.
They are my sanity. 

They calm my breath and give final destination to my fluttering, frightened eyelids.
The little girl with blonde angelic curls, her smile so welcoming, so kind.
The baby boy in his father’s arms that never stops moving for a second.
And the father rotating hips, clearly embarrassed at the wild, elaborate scene his son is causing.

Yet the magnetic energy draws me forward. 
My robotic steps follow behind the mob of strangers, in tune with the silent reverence surrounding me.

I feel small at communion, yet connected to something enormous. 

A House for the Soul.

In my soul house, there are lots of empty chairs handcrafted in the finest wood one could imagine. Each chair spaced out like wandering ants at a summer picnic, no one necessarily following the other but searching for its own source of food, along its own journey.

A guest may wander in and sit, her ankles crossed, hands on her lap, with scattered breath and a first-day-of-school kind of anxiety. She waits for the agenda and her eyes wander, looking for corners to define her space. But there are none. She finds no end to this madness, just miles and miles of empty chairs in every direction, all turned at various angles.

The sun climbs up and down the sky of my soul house, yet the chairs remain.
Waiting to be used.
Waiting to be noticed.

My soul house is a resting place. I wander from chair to chair depending on my mood and settle in, sometimes with difficulty, sometimes with ease.

A rocking chair that leans back like a fearless child, letting go of all restraint.

A chair with little to no room for my achy back, forcing me to find rest despite my high-maintenance expectations.

A queen’s throne, elaborate with jewels, shining with glamour of all kinds.

I find my chair.
It finds me.
I sit.
I rest.