By Dick Jones
If God did not already exist, it would be necessary to invent him.
"He's God, cried all the creatures..."
—James Thurber, "The Owl Who Was God"
If there has to be a God —
no option on the broken
road, the bridge of sighs —
then let it be a dancing god,
like Shiva but a voiceless one,
indifferent, treading out
the double loop, the bee's infinity
of weaving round and round until
the measure's known by all.
Or if not the dancer,
how about a singer?
One who cants in tongues,
a lingua franca from the
furnace heat (ex corde vita),
singing the blues, sean nos,
la duende, passionate, engaged,
yet powerless to lift the curse
of Sisyphus, or block the juggernaut,
or move the stone. These gods omnipotent,
who claim our praise and swallow
our prayers like hungry birds,
are dreams that draw
on the oxygen of our need.
We might as well worship
water falling, shape-shifting
clouds, the janus faces watching
from the cliffs that tell us
what we want to know.
I don't understand why I feel so much sicker a week into this fracking cold than I felt the first couple of days, but I pretty much had no voice and no energy on Monday, so apart from folded laundry and a bit of quality time with my kids when they weren't hiding in their rooms, I have nothing whatsoever to report.
We did watch Sleepy Hollow, which I am so glad to have back (I know people are complaining it's too Supernatural but I haven't watched enough SPN to notice), and we caught up on Madam Secretary which I may secretly like better than Downton Abbey. Some pictures of Lewis Ginter's gorgeous winter garden: