the goodly fragrance of cedar
if i really wanted to worship, to
throw myself before God, to be
sanctified, sanctuaried, redeemed,
my soul, i would walk away from
the massive baptismal font,
Lake Huron, toward the towering
cathedral of cedar beams. Unbelievers
call the cedars “the woods,” forsaking the
mystery of being covered, holified.
i would crunch my way across the carpets
of green and gold needles, cast off
by the angels hurrying heavenward
for the night to dream the dream of the
My needle-crunching time would take me to the
(I would simply know I was there). I would drop
to my knees and fall on my back, looking
through the tall caps of evergreens and into
the heavenly blue sky. And I would listen, deeply, openly
with absolute silence to the Silence. sometimes there
would be the sounds of silence. sometimes music.
sometimes a quiet pentecost of saints. and always the
Holiest of all Theories whispering to my heart. Throwing
my arms and legs out, I would make a needle angel
in the cedar and breathe in regenerated life. Then would
come rest in manifold senses, with Ultimate Rest coming in
the Sense of Wonder.
This is a ritual, rich and evanescent, along my solitary
journey until one day i shall walk out, with every
ounce of the sacramental alive in its cathedral quietude.
and I shall continue to lie down, weightless,
listening until the Holiest sings me to sleep and
carries me home.