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Church Bells

I wake to church bells and the smell of bad woodsmoke. Last night was stuffy so I opened a window to let in a bit of breeze. Now the neighborhood is filled with low woodstove smoke and before rising to close the window I can imagine smoke curling up the hilly street and circling rooftops. The horizon is orange and magenta and the sun breaks the surface of Lake Superior it is 8:05 am. A good day and I hope to maintain the sanctity.

The bells of St. Pete’s Cathedral and Sunday morning mass remind me that I have not meditated and ought to wake and do Yoga or Tai Chi on the shores of blue water. One day my oldest son said to a friend, “My mother is going to hell because she has fallen away from the church.”

My friend replied, ” Your mother is one of the most spiritual woman I know.”

Am I?

Lately, my hope is strong. But I lose center often. I do not walk with softness on the earth. My faith in people wanes as I watch war ravage our world.

I imagine families walking downtown passing the Women’s Center to gather at the Cathedral. Their voices will sing praise and the priest will offer a homily. They will leave refreshed, redied for the week ahead.

Maybe I am in need of a homily. A sermon. A summons to a cause and meaning new to me. Maybe I need a shaman or priest to help me see thru the wood smoke. Stand with a group of like minds on the shore as sun rises and pray for this day, this people, myself.

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