It stands in the water stilted head cocked like a hammer; faster than the eye it hooks a flash of gray and then a glimpse of silver quickly swallowed. I wish the canoe to silence, hold breath with the day a ruffle of air and feathers an explosion into grace and it’s gone a hundred yards away. I begin the painstaking task of easing oar and self across the surface towards this totem an avatar granting pure life, motion, a reason to be. It wings forth again in perfect silence and falls perched on the stillness that stretches its hand out over the water down deep into the mud the fish that are blind to the roots into me where even now I am winging
The oceans feel the pulling of the moon. The whole earth feels it. Why then cannot I? I am too fragile, small to face that doom. The oceans live millennia; I die. The oceans churn me under in their power. Their force is mighty, and their mass is more. The moon climbs high and falls, led by the hour. If time is known, location then is sure. But what predicts where we may be and when, When even we don’t know? Command the sky To turn, but what’s the will that orders men? The heavens say it’s either God or “I.” At waning gibbous, just a bit past full, I see the moon, but cannot feel its pull.
In M. Night Shyamalan’s faux gothic film The Village, a late-19th-century community lives in enforced isolation; the deformed, bloodthirsty creatures who inhabit the woods outside the village prevent access to the world beyond. What makes the film an imitation gothic is the double plot twist.
As I stood, rooted, winter-locked, my hand outstretched in southern sun, the lizard leapt to the branch of my arm as if there was nothing at all to fear. As if I was the tree he sought, he rested, weightless, green as grass, pink throat-fan ballooning with each small breath, and I felt something ease inside, a sweetness rising, as he ran, quick as raindrops, up my trunk, toe pads tickling as he touched, oh so lightly, neck, cheek, hair, like a blessing, or a prayer.
So Jesus’ wealthy friends did prove useful in the end. All four narratives seem to agree on this. Joseph, after all—the one from Arimathea, not his Dad— Joseph pulled strings with Pilate. Did he have to call in a few favors earned in questionable ways so he could claim possession of the corpse? Old Nicodemus too, Jesus’ night-shift friend from the Sanhedrin, Nicodemus makes his own fleeting reprise, carting along a ton—almost—of fragrant spices, nard and myrrh (again!), for preservation purposes. Although where he got such pricey stuff, late on a holiday Friday afternoon, is never quite explained. And that convenient, fresh-hewn, garden tomb; even back in the day, sepulchres such as those did not come ten-a-penny! Add in all the hired help they must have needed to get stuff from here to there and, of course, to roll and seal that massive rock . . . Whole thing makes you wonder—doesn’t it?— wonder if that narrow needle’s eye got prized wide open— camel-size, at least—to accommodate these late allies.
Children who sing in a choir, play in an orchestra, or perform in a play are more likely to make good moral choices compared to their peers. This finding was the result of a study at the University of Birmingham involving 10,000 British children and 250 teachers. The study also concluded that participation in sports doesn’t necessarily lead to better moral choices. The findings suggest that sports build character only when parents and coaches work to ensure that outcome. Children who go to church, get good grades, and have parents with a higher level of education also did better in the moral choices measure (Telegraph, February 27).