The crows had gathered this morning. Encircling that white tailed corpse on the road. Its throat ripped out by the speeding car. A murder of crows there, squawking from a sign, from the sky, from the belly of the doe. All I could think was, are they an omen for me?
Of course not. I don’t believe in such things.
Do you see that? The way her hair is glinting in the setting sun? They way their games almost glow in the purple? His face nearly sparkling? There despite the filthy window, did you notice the sun setting down in pinks and purple splendor? Despite your exhaustion and your frustration, can’t you see the holiness of this moment? The way we are all holding onto life and death with the same weak hands. The way our control of it all is so illusionary. The way, those old crows could be waiting for me just outside?
These ordinary moments are all we got friend. There is no purpose greater than the one you are walking now. No theology preached from any pulpit that doesn’t apply in this absolutely ordinary moment.
So you can call me an idealist if you want to. The way I always see the world as a great romance, but I don’t mind. Even if the pink in my eyes is really from this bone weary mamma season, I’ll pretend it is the reflection of this extraordinary sunset, lighting up their faces with all the splendor of creation. I will keep these rose-coloured glasses on all day long, recognizing that there is no such thing as ordinary. That this moment right now may be the Holiest thing I every touch.