How can I make my ambition Your ambition?
Every now and then, unworldly inspiration and imagination penetrates
this sin-chained mind, this bone-bound spirit,
and I rejoice,
but just as quickly, flesh presses in—
pride presses in,
puffing me up, showing me what a wonderful thing I did for God.
Is there any hope to live a pure life,
a noble life,
when wriggling in skin and bone, a soul enslaved?
But to be free.
. . . photographing!
Life and death balance on a tenuous thread— the start and the end of things, the start and end of every moment.
Birth sparks and hope spreads wings.
Each moment by moment breath of life steadies itself on a mix of potential and conclusion, and then
life dwindles, and each cell pushes for that last glimmer; then,
hope spreads wings.
I look down at my hands and know that within those tissues and cells, blood is coursing,
minute after minute, circuit upon circuit. But where is my soul in this pink, freckled flesh? Where is my spirit in this troubled, pondering life?
Is the soul hitching a ride on red blood cells as they careen by the white?
Is my spirit holed up in one of my vital organs? My brain, maybe? Concentrated in a command center, overseeing all my worldly cognition.
Perhaps soul and spirit share space, intertwined in the four chambers of my pulsing heart.
But when the soul is gone, the hands are still there, and even the blood; but what stops really when we say life is gone? As the flesh cools, lying motionless, is the me-part that is really me immediately absent,
or hovering, waiting for further instructions?
It is said to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord, but I am wondering when the absent happens. What changes in that one fragile second to another when what was thought alive is now
and these carnal threads release their hold?
Story in a story.