APPASSIONATO

Writing is how I process – but sometimes it is hard to do the things I should do. I think Paul would understand. I have sat and stared at my fingers, trying to coax them to empty my heart and head of the words that keep churning within, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot force the words into my fingers.

Praying has been nearly as complicated, but yesterday I made myself be still and try. At first, I had to fight to keep my mind from wandering; my thoughts and prayers swung like kites in a storm. At last, the storm passed, my kites floated to the ground, and I was finally able to take a deep breath and settle my heart at the feet of God.

He took my hand and asked me to follow him. He led me down the stairs towards the door, and waited as I slipped on my shoes and jacket. The sun was low in the sky, in that awkward place too far south to make it warm. We walked together through the yard to the gate leading to the coriander fields.

The fields are not pretty this time of year. All the remaining coriander is dry, broken, and dead. There is no coriander dancing in the breeze, only large clumps of dirt that make it necessary to keep your eyes on the ground as you walk so that you don't trip.

We continued to walk until we got to the center of the fields. Dirt slipped into the sides of my shoes, and I wished I had worn my boots instead of sneakers.

He stopped there in the middle, and as I bent down to empty my shoes of the dirt, he spoke, "What do you see?" he asked. Without looking up, a quick and thoughtless reply left my lips. "Nothing," I said curtly.

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how brash and unmindful my response had been. I was in the presence of the almighty creator, and I had uncaringly responded out of apathy, selfishness, or both. Utterly overwhelmed by embarrassment and remorse, I slipped to the dirt and wrapped my arms tightly around my knees. "How did things get so out of focus" my heart whispered the question to my head.

"Our vision fades when we forget to look beyond ourselves," he said, moving his arms in broad sweeping movements as if he were painting the sky. "You see the clumps of dirt, and I see the sun painting a neon fan as it sets over the mountains."

For a second, I wondered if he would take some dirt into his hands, spit into it, and place it on my eyes, but his arms continued to sweep and bend as though there was music playing inside his head.

I sat there wishing he would stop and sit down beside me. Even in my state of guilt, I wanted him to make the first move and comfort me, but he continued to stand, making me feel frustrated that he seemed so distracted.

I sat there trying to make sense of my feelings and his reaction, but it all evaded me, and sitting in the dirt did not seem to be helping, so I stood up beside him, eyes still fixed on the dirt, too ashamed to look up.

He turned towards me at last, and with the kindest voice, he said," Lift up your eyes to the hills, my child." As I looked up, I caught the last rays of the most magnificent neon orange sunset as it faded into dusk. I almost missed it- I did miss so much of it because the dirt had my attention for far too long.

Orange dusk turned into early night blue as we stood together. The air was cold and fresh as I waited and watched his arms continue to make whimsical shapes in the air. I still did not understand what he was doing, but then, ever so slightly, the music of an orchestra floated in all around us, and before I knew it, I could see the violins he had been so beautifully directing to play appassionato.