flags of a sort

I’ve never been one for pageantry, for ritual, for ringing bells. I suspect the divine is in the everyday; it is the everyday.

It’s the way we open our sleepy eyes. It’s the half-pause in the chatter when we see that splash of color in the tree; it’s the thought that someone placed it there, and the touch of fabric and rough rope on fingertips already sore from the garden. There’s the rustle when they reach up to pull down the branch, and the sound of their own breath in the chill of the early hour.

Maybe it’s a prayer of a sort, this small act of setting something apart. Or maybe it’s just an ordinary moment, already gone, on its way to the next. Maybe the two are one and the same.

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