There’s a thin moon hanging over our house this evening. And some of the solar lights we’ve collected and displayed over the past five years are still in play: a blinking glass flower, two spotlights splashing lichen covered trees, three metal lanterns pouring dim light over an awakening garden bed. It’s early spring in New England, late in Lent, full of portent. Because Holy Week will be truly full for me, I’ve gotten the Easter decorations out of the attic, and they’re dotted about our home. As each season unveils, I’ve begun to track time a bit more intentionally: how many more Easters, how many more Summers, how many more … whatevers.
Inevitable, I guess … when one is in what’s likely the last third of life, to measure, to count. Distillation seems to rule; what, and who are truly important become measured; am I about what I should be about, and how much is this is about ME anyway? I’m not really that old, but I have begun thinking about my obituary. Will it read interestingly? Will it say that I actually contributed something? Will it outrage? God … I hope so.
And, stuff. I’m a collector. I love to fill my home with things that make me happy. Our house is small now, so my indulgences must be limited. But with stuff comes consequences. That thing from the thrift shop, that thing from the swap: where will it go from here? My kids want none of this. So, where will it go?
Weird that I’m conflating time and stuff, but, well, that’s where I am.
Most faith traditions are heading into seriously holy periods: Ramadan, Passover, Holy Week. War, and war crimes are raging in Ukraine. Two years of Pandemic may be quelling. The climate emergency is not abating.
And, there’s a thin moon hanging in the sky tonight. Light, however dim, surrounds.
Outside of time, and despite my/our attachment to things, renewal, return, reconciliation, resurrection and rejoicing could be at hand. May the Holy One continue to teach and lead us. May it be so.