Fellowship & Fairydust

My leg is bouncing up

and down,

acutely aware

that I will be silently sitting here

for an hour,

trying to keep the blood flowing.

Someone sneezes softly,

but they may as well have screamed in this silence.

A few whispered “bless yous”

and once again

the still blanket descends,

warm with incense.

Yet I feel bare.

I don’t know what to fill this silence with.

I forgot my rosary beads,

(which would have killed a good twenty minutes)

but I shouldn’t need them, right?

I’m supposed to be able to

just look at the Eucharist,

and then I’ll feel inner peace.

Or something.

So starts the staring contest with bread in a gold box.

Come on, say something!

Please?

Silence.

Why am I here?

Why do I pray

and come to church when I feel…

nothing?

There are a dozen reasons to leave and yet

I remain here until the hour is up.

And the same thing will happen next week.

Is it habit that continues to bring me here?

Are Mass and adoration just ingrained into my routine?

Why do I continue to pray?

All it is, is one hour.

Yet this hour seems so expansive,

slower seconds,

pulling more hours

into orbit.

One hour

is too little and too much,

but the one hour remains.

The repetition of words

I say has long descended

into white noise.

Why do I continue to pray?

Is it guilt,

fear of Agony?

Am I waiting for a miracle?

Acceptable reasons, but I feel

there should be better ones.

It’s not Doubt

that drives me away,

it’s just…

feeling nothing.

Why do I continue to pray?

Because I want a reason to stay.

Sometimes, I sit in a corner

of a shopping mall, watching

people sift through the clothes,

searching for treasure.

But treasure is being taken from them,

their money, their time, their energy.

Surrounded

by advertisements they know lie,

they listen to the lies, or

trade in for subtler ones.

I long

for the wilderness, for the sublime,

for peace after internal death,

to be transfigured.

But,

I only eat sand.

I’m slowly eroded by the rise

and fall of everyday life,

that insipid tide.

Stress and excitement wash over me

and I feel like I’m drowning,

but then they pull back

and I realize how shallow

the water is. I’m swimming in

a narrow ocean toward an island

with dry fruit and paradise birds

with teeth.

But I want to plunge

into deeper waters, or better yet,

take off from the water

and fly.

And if I’m tested,

at least the lines will be clearer in the sand

than in this manmade forest,

where the heart of darkness cannot

hide under fluorescents.

And if I’m injured,

the wound will be cleaner than this slow draining.

So I come here,

to this small room

dimly lit by colored windows.

The choir is next door,

soft strains sieving through the walls,

lapping my ear. A melodious crash

at the shore of the soul, but

the scene is quiet,

musical waves and mundane worries fading

into background.

“Like cold water to a thirsty soul”.

The music stops,

but the psalm stays with me.

I sit in the corner,

and stare at the bread in a gold box,

and find my wilderness in the silence.