The scarlet petals were floppy as old hats by March, and falling into piles on the rug, so I cut its plastic pot to free its roots and laid it by the compost in the mud. Busy that spring, I never noticed how it waited out the months, night after night in wind, in grueling rain and a late snow, inclining from the compost into light, its new leaves firming, shining, thick, like a novitiate of a strange order, as days warm, growing fierce and quick, blessing the lost plants I’ve lodged there. It rang like church bells, red, on the hour. Now let me learn to love what cannot flower.
The shavings curled from my plane the afternoon she stood a shadow in the door and spoke the single syllable. I thought, So soon, but deep in me a harmony awoke, a rhythm lost in the hammer song I made furnishing the world chair by chair, bed by bed. Her single word was Go. My debt was paid. Joseph’s memory would be satisfied: My craft would find its end in speech—the Word voiced as once when spoken it divided light from dark and all Creation bloomed. I heard my father in her voice. Both sadness and delight indwelt the shop, as if the two were one as they may be when the work of wood is done.
in a pink shirt the reporter speaks his voice ripe with excitement while behind him the Wave crashes over and over the same bodies flung like broken sticks which in an instant they have become bundled into body bags bulging on the shredded sand though when we return we’ll hear from one survivor in a wheelchair whom we glimpse smiling as the scene shifts to a woman waltzing across her kitchen dazzles as she holds high a ziplock bag not large enough for bodies no but fruit she says stays fresh for days.
If you found the first two installments of the Spider-Man series poetic, imaginative and impassioned, you’re likely to experience an unpleasant jolt at Spider-Man 3. The first two pictures were built on beautifully worked-out fantasy scenarios that operated as metaphors for the emotional development of the main character, Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire), aka Spider-Man.
It seems like yesterday that Indian-born director Mira Nair burst onto the international scene with Salaam Bombay! about the street children of that sprawling Asian city. In fact, it has been almost 20 years. During that time Nair has carved out an impressive career with such culturally sensitive films as Mississippi Masala, Kama Sutra and Monsoon Wedding.
And I am one of your many amanuenses writing letters recommending you, then I am free to know you as I do and write you as I will, searching out your ways as I find you and longing to trust who it is I find.
But you are who I say you are and not, who they wrote you were and often are, who I wish you were and I hear Wish again.
So that I, exhausted, resign myself to Eckhart’s ecstatic, My me is God, and I am both glad and sad, for I turn around and there you are and it remains true that I see so little of me in you.
Still, no one is searching for me the way you are, even as I play my childish hide-and-seek with you, until you grow weary of my game and like a father with better things to do, go back to writing the ever evolving You.
Religion is often on display in professional athletics, with the exception of the National Hockey League. The few hockey players who are open about their faith buck a tradition of reticence or downright distrustfulness toward religion. Unlike professional football or basketball, many NHL players come from Canada or Europe, where the culture is much more secular and religious faith is closely guarded. There is also the suspicion in hockey that a person of faith might be too soft a player. Some hockey clubs make chapel services available, but far fewer than in professional basketball (Boston Globe, April 5).