Chasing the Wind

“Do not imagine that the important thing is never to be thinking of anything else and that if your mind becomes slightly distracted all is lost.” Saint Teresa of Avila

 

She sits, hands warmed by a mug of tea, gazing out the back door at the rain. Once upon a time, when they first owned their home, she could look out and over the top of the willow oak tree. Now, she sees under it; is eye level with the oak's lowest branches, reaching wide to shield her.  For a moment she can't bear the weight of it and longs for the nakedness of winter. It will come soon enough. She will embrace then reject the chill, just as she always does, much like a spoiled child all too soon bored with her toys.

She remembers images, but not moments or how she felt or what she thought. She forgets the sound of her father's voice, but she clearly sees his face, older and gray. She remembers a word here and there but strains to remember the voice that now only speaks fleetingly in dreams. Often she feels gypped of time spent with him. She really only knew him as a child. It's just that there are so many questions.

It has stopped raining. The deck is awash in leaves scattered recklessly about and pinned to the glistening wood. Scattered, like the stray thoughts constantly disrupting her prayers. Pushing through, allowing herself to be called back, then slipping away again and again. How patient He must be; how He loves her through all her wandering. She returns to Him often and is off again, like a child playing at the feet of his mother. Lost in play, then remembering, he gazes up at her and smiles, "Mama" and turns again to chase the wind.

And so, she offers her racing-about, her thoughts of friends and family, her memories of long ago, her longing for what cannot be, and her hopes and fears of what's to come - uniting all in supplication with each whispered Ave - as she returns again and again to images of fiats and visitations, of a holy birth, of anguish and death, of water and wine and miracles, of resurrection and ascension, and of queenship and a sovereignty divine.

And all is not lost.