Drunk Like Bible Times

This weekend the "group" of kids I previously partied with in high school got reunited once again, so I indulged it; let it drag on in a sort of hazy last stand, to find myself here on a Monday apropos, the just-barely-cold of Virginia Beach stirring my penchant for all things new. It is from this place where I wonder if everything I have been doing has already been done. How often does anyone really stand up and ask the hard questions? “Is this where I should be? Am I inspired? Do I do what I do because I need to, want to and love to, or because I don’t know what else to do? And where would I begin even if I should?” These are the questions lining the tiny squares of my new calendar and already I’m five days behind.

The promise of any year can hang on wind or clang like church bells depending entirely upon whose listening and how hard. And isn’t that really the point? Are we listening? Is it possible that all the right roads are paved with an earnest set of ears? Maybe so. I have been lucky in this life, that I have found myself inside moments of blistering peace. These times can be riddled with unanswered questions, but rarely are they questions of trajectory. It is inside these moments where purpose and action collide and that which is not easy at least seems meaningful. Today though, like hope I am hanging on a breeze searching for a church bell. This is not a fact I lament, but simply a fact.

This is a place I know well, but one that changes with each new day. On long nights here I go digging through the sands for the bones and tools of a culture I have lost. A culture that is never far in days but is light years gone when searched out with the fingertips. What a strange truth for a person who works with their hands. Still, if peace does not howl on this, at least it whispers. It may be a distant sound but for now it I will rest my tired fingers.