I am searching, always searching for a new window. Something to look through into a world that I have yet to see. I find in searching for the truth of life before I grow old and become dust, that most windows are cracked. Cracked and dirty with an illusion of “seeing” through them. I search into eyes, I search into sounds, inflections of voice and soul revealing splendor. If I gaze, if I deeply look into something besides myself I can truly see. It’s a search, for the divine, for the wise, for the innocent. I search for something holy in the middle of the mundane. The longing to see this God I long for in a world gone rogue. The window I see through most days has much shadowed light. Illusions of something remarkable. Something that will refresh me. I am cloaked in black mourning garments and yet I catch glimpses of sunny, yellow righteous flowers. A summer meets winter. A hopeful seed planted. An empty bed realized. It’s the stories and it is the dance of life.
A lot has changed for me.
Once upon a time there was a full table, a family, the breaking of bread and the toasting of blessings. I took much for granted, the sounds, the smells, the laughter. My table is set now, and there is no one to sit in the brown velvet seats.
Much of that is due to death. Many of those souls have flown. That means I am growing old and that, by all accounts is a miracle. So many, who came to see me on my deathbed have gone before me. I am still here, nestled in the mountain air and the red rocks and the whispering pines and the pup running in his sleep. I am tucked into a bedroom, typing my heart to keys of promise and hope. I am most days completely alone, less the one phone call from a dark haired sister. Our words are our life line some days. We marvel at that.
I used to climb and hike long walks, up steep hills. Now I meander down trail of Aspens and eyes following me from their bark, leaves blushing and burning with fire in their nakedness. I pause a lot to catch my breath and I want to see the life that is at my feet. I sit on the forest floor and I touch moss, clinging to rocks and ferns hiding small bugs. I feel dancing rays of light upon my back. I am wearing my most worn out of shoes and I am weeping. I once ran, I now weep. In between I walk gingerly or I lay thankfully on a bed.
I am searching for the window, the window that opens to reveal the map. The map that invites me to the treasures yet ahead of me. Elizabeth Browning said “The earth is crammed with heaven.” I am seeking, searching, weeping, laughing, squinting and sleeping my way into some version of window shopping the rest of my life. Searching for God through rose colored glasses, seeing others through a magnifier while steam has covered the mirror by which I see my face. As the Apostle Paul said “We see dimly” these mysteries.