life unfurling

Perhaps the signs are always there. I know a woman who witnesses them in rainbows. A friend who sees them in numbers. Another who swears by the Tarot, the deep lines in palms. My sister finds them in the stars and the ever-shifting alignments of Venus and Mars. Pay attention to the angels, they say. Cry out. Call for help. Keep your eyes open. 

I am trying to learn to listen. 

About a year ago, I purchased a book entitled Hearing God. I find a way to intellectualize everything. Instead of listening, I read about listening. The book promised to debunk myths about human-divine communication and illuminate the truth about God. I read until the author mentioned baptism and then closed the book forever. That was before I realized I was close-minded and the thought of finding salvation through “the dunk,” as the author put it, was almost offensive. Then, shortly after, I watched O Brother, Where Art Thou? for maybe the fourth time and wanted, of course, to go down to the river and pray. Sign? 

I have no idea what the saying “The proof is in the pudding” means, and I refuse to Google it right now. I am busy typing. Plus, I find that I am more apt to find the truth in avocado bubble tea. Pudding is very passe. Yet, my actions indicate that I am a proof person. If I could find truth in pudding, I would whip some up right now, dunk my hands in it, feel around. I wish it were that simple. In essence, I know that life and Spirit are primarily constructed of mystery. Know this. Can feel it when I pause. But, do I listen—to myself, to others, to nature, to God? No. I continue breathing with blinders on. I am dense. I am tunnel visioned.