Kajmak on the Bread of Life
Sitting on the car, back of the car, backed in gold.
Walking through the alleys and churches and corridors of Stromboli. Smelling of pasta, sausage, flowers and smoke. An endless platter of cheese. A tray of herring, an ocean away. Kajmak on the bread of life. And I don't mean some dry, shy, measly husk of Jesus - I mean the air and soil and meat and bone, the summer harvest and the milk and the cream. I mean the essence of ourselves. Because it's there, all of it, the spirit and flame and bread of life.
God, you're in every rock and flower, every life-spark, seed, tall tree, you tower over and grow silently under, up and through the meat of our hearts, the pulse of our bone, all the tendons singing to your glory. How'd you get so awesome?
This is more important, this, than living. Endless forgiving. Every breath a step towards You.
I am getting what I need. What I need is this - a run-seam openness to God. Words and hammers and anvils, dripping blood, laying away nothing, storing up nothing. Leaving nothing for the harvest, but incinerating it with joy.