The convenient thing about religious afterlives is that no one can prove whether or not they exist, since you have to die to find out. So, in spite of the weird little cults like the one I grew up in, or the Transhumanist Church of Eternal Life (which is of course, in Florida, the universal epicenter of old, dying people and weirdness itself), eternal life is entirely subjective. Unless you’re a jellyfish.

We think dirt is something to get rid of, to wash off, and to be honest, to be a little ashamed of having on our hands. We call this place we live “Earth,” with not a trace of irony. But we forget what earth is. It’s just dirt. God’s own dirt. And we don’t work it at all.

I took the dogs out for a walk below silver clouds swirling, wind lifting the skirts of the trees. Thunder. We turned the corner. The first drop hit my the tip of my nose, my glasses suddenly more blurry than they usually are on cataract softened eyes. I walked with my tongue out, hoping to … Continue reading Chance of Rain Tonight-A Meditation for Lent, Day 21

I’m a preacher. Go ahead and laugh. It’s kind of like saying, "I’m a traveling medicine man, or a whirling dervish or a Swedish dragon-fighter." Those are jobs nobody has anymore, but it’s not because people don’t need the newest patent medicine, or don’t want to dance like a dust-devil on the desert floor, or even because all the dragons are dead. It’s just that no one believes the stories anymore.