Never again will we entertain this tyranny that wears a thousand divisive masks but is always a scared and greed-scarred child-man hiding behind a curtain.
Moments just arrive, or collide, with the last thought, the last action. Bird food/imminent death. Dog barking/missile attack. The expected/the unthinkable.
We are the bird and the work is the song, and we must sing it while we can. And when this song comes not from a desire to please or to prove or to achieve, but from a profound and earnest longing in the sacred nucleus of us, it is holy work too.
Ours was the home friends gravitated to. Where the door was always open and some homemade delicious meal to feed an army was baking in the oven. It was a place in which it was impossible not to feel a heart full of love and peace.