San Francisco de Asis Church in Ranchos de Taos, every angle presents beauty against the brilliant blue of a New Mexican sky.Taking to the road with an unpredictable two year old, changes the way you see the world and also how you interact with it. As many of you know, I love holy sites of all faiths. I like to close my eyes and sit, quietly breathing in the reverence afforded such places by those who worship there. Bodhi approaches things differently. The statue of St. Francis seemed like a fabulous play patner and in no time Bodhi was walking around him chanting, "ring around the rosies".A fact that led to a number of scowling visitors, but no doubt pleased the holy of holies. Next, we entered the church where Bodhi immediately saw the holy water. I showed him what it was for, dabbing my fingers on my forehead, chest and both shoulders. Bodhi, looked at me with a sort of pity and showed me what water is for, drinking. Next, we attempted to approach the alter to light two purchased candles, one for my beautiful catholic Grande' Cia and one as a prayer for clarity. I tried to explain this to Bodhi and he announced, "Yeah I know what the candles are for, I've been here before in California, except there were a lot more flowers". Then he approached the candles and began a throaty rendition of "Happy Birthday to You", I stopped him before he began surreptitiously blowing out candle-prayers. The poor penitents in the church were no doubt casting disapproving looks at me, his mother. Once the candles were lit and prayers speedily whispered Bodhi looked around and said, "I don't like this place" and ran singing to the door and out into the open arms of a wide sky, beneath whose gaze even the bawdiest songs are welcome.
Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the
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