Borrowed

Sleeping in a borrowed bed, in a borrowed room, in a house that will never belong to anyone. This is what it feels like to live on borrowed time, to know there is an end, a definitive end, one I can point to on a calendar and know that under all circumstances that is the end. Despite the knowledge of such impermanence I am completely possess by this place. Perhaps it is because of the recognition of the fleeting nature of Agape that I am so content and fulfilled with my simple work. Perhaps it is because of this temporality I am happy simply being in the presence of those around me. I suppose those who clearly see death within their sights tend to live more fully and deeply into their lives, but rather than death clearly in view I think of this as another birth. It isn’t often that life presents us with an absolutely clean slate and I’ve been given that gift. It’s a disservice to the Universe, to Yahweh, to the forces of life not to paint it beautifully, not to cover every square inch with color, to wash mistakes with tears and begin anew.
I’ll cover this new slate in the lace that hangs delicately around the mountains. A lace that is beautiful every moment but constantly reforming, reweaving itself. A gentle blow from the creator, the master artist, is always rearranging and creating a new pattern just outside my window. This dynamic lace floats lightly over a patchwork quilt of golds and reds, and the ever greens of my wolrd. This quilt wraps tightly around the children of the valley, holding us tightly, sheltering us from the outside world, the protection of a great mother; rising from every possible place to hold onto her children, to cradle them in the crook of her great arms, telling of her love for us despite our rebellion, despite our disinterest in her welfare.