A peculiar combination of ennui and epiphany has me following the quickly disappearing trail of some spiritual experience. It's Ash Wednesday, the season of wilderness and repentance has only just begun, and it's been a rough week already.
At the risk of sounding like a flake, and at the peril of driving myself completely insane, I'm embarking this morning on a 6 week Lenten pilgrimage. Okay, really, I'd already planned 3 weeks of work-related travel in the middle of Lent, had standing invitations to fill the other 3, and couldn't shake a week's worth of waking up in the morning with the deep-down desire to get in my car and MOVE.
So, I am. There are about a million synapses sparking in my head, making connections and putting pieces together, but all that surfaces at the moment is that something is happening and it needs the strange space of Being-in-Transit to keep happening. So, I'm going. And I'll probably be blogging.
I walked across the street at dusk last night to pay my electric bill, and when I turned around to come home, the fading golden sun's light drew my gaze up and there, smack in the middle of the cloudless sky, was the cross sitting at the top of the Baptist church steeple next door. "You know where all this leads, right?" something asked.
"Yes," I replied, with all the arrogance and sarcasm that only a seminary graduate could muster, "I'm aware."