It has been a blowdryer kind of hot here in Arkansas. I look out these windows and see such beauty, but I promise it’s a trick. The air is as thick as mud, like when you’re in one of those dreams where you’re being chased, but your body will only move heavy and in slow motion. Being outside is like trying to sleep walk. I was hanging clothes on the line, which has given me all the joy in the world, but each piece of clothing seemed to weigh five times what’s normal. It’s like gravity is bearing down on us, trying to make us into stronger people. I don’t like it.
These are dog days. These are the days of coopedupedness, of wild thirst. These are the days that fish for anger, for the frenzies. Sirius growls down like a mad dog. Even the mountains look down at the sea and say, “I want to crash on you,” and the sea looks up to the mountain, and says, “that is where I’ll rise.” You can’t even settle a bet right now. The feeling of fairness is something people will write about in books.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be a grown up, but the tensions in this quaking world are pulled so tightly that nothing seems right anymore. Everyone hurts. We’ve strung perspectives like a pinging web, and it’s a tightrope everywhere. The noise has broken our inner ear, not just the individual ear, but also the collective ear. How can we balance, hold the face in front of us with peace and love, without an inner ear? From Gaza to Ferguson, with all my passions rising up, all I have is prayer. I want more than prayer. I want a hand to reach down and strum the tensions like the strings on a tuned instrument, reach down and play something to back the dog off.
There isn’t even a song that can make any sense of this world right now.
Wake into the intricate parts of our hearing. Sing. Where are You now? Let the whole of us ask You. Come into our inner ear; Kingdom Come.