I hope that my penance is good this year.
I race in thought to the finish line. I bought a pair of new kicks.
Prayer fills the air. The tax collector pounds upon a well worn chest. It beats fashion a rhythm unlike a symphony and similar to that sound that is made when the garbage collector arrives at 6am on the morning of your unfortunate hang over.
Those pious fasting children of Africa and else where make us all look bad. I must fast better than that. I can give up…
Love flows over the season. Mourners cradle the thoughts of loss and the conviction of gain. Suffering coats the walls of the flesh temples that make up the church. Us and them march in a sing-song of cackles and wailing…only Bob could understand. Yet love works to free us and them stand and watch.
I vow to read the living waters. Only I get washed out. The ink bleeds from the pages and stain my fingertips. My nose itches and now I have a puppy nose.
So I sit under the Bodhi tree. The sun rises and falls. The crowds come and go. The moon blankets the land and reveals the mystery of creation, the misery of life, and the joy of relationship. I sit. I wait. For 40 days I chase the dragon. The dragon will bring truth. It will deliver peace. I wait there under the tree with my eyes closed. Unconscious the Bodhi tree becomes the dragon I chase.