Thursday, April 4, 2013

Now. Here. This.

Blake's Moses and The Burning Bush, notice how Moses is like, maybe if I slowly walk away...

One foot in front of the other plodding like a draft horse up Chapel Hill to increase my heart rate and release endorphins that counteract my natural born anxiety, worse now in perimenopause than ever before, damn estrogen, I'm listening to the podcast On Being and there is a Jesuit priest being interviewed for his work with gang members in L.A. and I'm huffing up the hill and not really paying attention until he's talking about his mantra and I'm always interested in other people's mantras because I don't have one and he says his mantra is Now. Here. This.

He actually said Now. Period. Here. Period. This. Period. And right then I caught my foot on a stick and tripped, tumbling like a clown down the hill into the clover teacups over kettle. I dust off, do a brief body scan for fractures, and look around sheepish to see if anyone had seen me receive this sign like Moses might have been if he were anxious that people notice a piece of shrubbery burning like the lit end of a marshmallow and a voice coming from it, from the universe which is that Now. Here. This. is meant for me.