Dwelling Places

I suppose for a writer it's not too cool to be redundant. Words can be used too much. Using the same word more than once is a sign, perhaps, that the vocabulary needs to be expanded. But that's not necessarily always so. Some words are unique and carry with them such a singular significance that used more than once, go to the heart of what a writer means. Tabernacle is one of those words.To the heart of it -- a woman named Priscilla O. She is a unique tabernacle in a little town north of where I live. But before I tell you a little bit about Priscilla O., I want you to envision a biblical parallel to not only who she is, but what she is.When I first saw Priscilla O., I could not help but think of Moses' reaction when he saw the exquisite flame, unquenchable upon the unromantic looking chamisa-like bush that was uncomsumable; its fuel apparently, inexhaustible. It would be ironic if the "burning bush" indeed was a Chamisa or Rabbitbrush plant.  The...

At the place I work, there is a special place with walls that harmonize in quietude and peace. Rich with tranquil pageantry. The king's throne room. I walked into work for the first time after four years of wondering what my purpose in life would be. Would be? And in all that wondering of what would be, I failed to see the purpose my life already held in those singular and irreplaceable present moments. Imagine! Four years of present moments gone by at a clip. They were four years of no real routine. Of those four years, the last two were the least routine, yet all the same and filled with adventure. Only sometimes, I failed to see the adventure in the challenge of being charged with caring for a man and woman who are a source of blessing and inspiration in the precious present moments of my past and even now. But I digress. Back on topic, at this place, there are many cubicles and fancy offices, hallways, a lunch room and typical office traffic. The place has a ...

Before I get to my surprise, you will have to wade through this mess of thoughts, unless of course, you cheat and skip over it and go to the end. I wouldn't blame you cause that is probably what I might do. But then again, I might just wade through the cherry jello to get to the slice of banana. You truly cannot appreciate the slice of the banana unless you taste it with the jello. Life is a Pinata Party Truly living life is a giant pinata party. We bang the thing blindfolded. We sense its swing; feel the brush against our hair, and so we take a whack again. Again, we do a round-about and swing; and we can hear the rope pull the pinata zipping up and down as if it were alive and trying to escape our baton's collision. And then suddenly, with that mysterious crack like close lightening, a shower of sweet delights rain down upon our head. Pinatas are interesting because they represent our desire to conquer the "seven deadly sins:" Pride, envy, anger, sloth, g...

I cannot describe the moment to you from an on lookers perspective. I cannot give you the particulars of what it looked like for me to plummet down twelve feet from a roof to a concrete floor, perhaps hitting two hard plastic chairs on the way down. I can't even say that there is a slow motion instant replay version of this in my mind. No one was there to film my misstep onto an old aluminum ladder which collapsed with me on it; and down I went humpty-dumpty like with a crash of metal bending and twisting, concave, and after it all, leaning haphazard against the stucco walls of my father in law's house. I'd never anticipated any moment like this. If the flame of a candle could possibly have any self consciousness, and if that flame could consider its own extreme extrinsic contingency, (how its life might be eradicated by an unpredictable rush of an immense wind blitzing against its dancing delicate light against the night sky), that is how my "sucked up" se...

Two 9 year old boys headed talking and laughing down the shortcut on their way to the movies. Gallup, New Mexico, is an old mining town and the part of town I lived in was a little barrio built on Gallup's hill country where a number of old mines still exist like catacombs underneath the landscape. Alleys were popular shortcuts. And those adventurous shortcuts, we would use, even if encroaching on other people's property. Neighbors never really cared in those days. We were just neighborhood kids. Everyone knew everyone. No one locked their doors that remember. Nothing to steal. My friend and I were both named Tommy, and we would always try to circumvent the old barn house where they used to say Rollie Mortuary would keep caskets in storage. I remember distinctly that as a child, I didn't really know what a casket was, but I had heard the word "coffin."  Coffin, to a child, sounds unexplainably more creepy. Coffins were a part of the genre of the Dracula and Fr...

Words by their very utterance can either separate or unite. A sword can divide, and a sword can unite. Excalibur is a symbol of a sword that united a people toward defeating evil. The the two words, "word" and "sword" are unalterably tied to one another as if both were two opposite edges of the same blade. It is interesting that if you add the letter "s" to the word "word", you get "sword." The representation of swords in history have by their use been dividers. Cultures have defeated other cultures in the dialectic of history in the use of this piece of metal, shaped to a point and sharpened on the edges to cut, maim and pierce armor and eventually skin. Words also can be used for their piercing quality, their cutting quality and their destructive capability in dividing brother from brother, father from son, mother from daughter, and so on. The utterance itself is the use of a unique irreplaceable breath, or the unique set of strokes...

Francis of Assisi grasped the rocks of Mount Laverna in order to get to the top. He had no finger nails left from all the intense friction of his fingers against the stones. Cold and damp, the air whirled round about him as his mind moved from delusion to illusion and finally, to complete focus -- clarity. The climb. The mountain. The confusion. The infusion. The wind so powerful that causes fear in the heart to hear its rush is inescapable, even in a cave. On that crest, was Christ. Christ the focus for Francis! It was a focus of the eye, the heart and the soul. Christ with wings and a lance. Clarity. This encounter was at Francis' invitation. This was no intrusion of the Christ. This was truly infusion of living bread into a dilapidated body which Francis himself called "brother ass." On that crest, Francesco Bernardone had his greatest challenge. This would be a prayer of struggle. A gauntlet had been thrown down by Christ on the crest of the mountain top. It...