Touching things. Because the kingdom of heaven is at hand.
Touching the grass as we ride along in the ranger. Touching every single chair in the church. Touching the dirt as I sit by the waterfall. Touching Teagan’s hair. Touching the fake leather console in Robbie’s truck.
Making a point of touching them. Touch is another part I can add to this memory. The papery sharpness of the grass in the heat of the day. I missed the dew, and now autumn’s coming. The downy roughness of the chairs that have received so many weary bodies. The soft, clammy dust in between spiky sprouts. It sticks to my fingers when I press it together. It sticks to my pants when I get up. The long, dense silk curls that get gently caught in my fingers. The warm, cracked skin of a console where CDs and lemon drops are hidden.
Healing is moving not fast. It’s taking time with things for their own sake. It’s allowing space. Attachment arrives, unannounced, through these strange subliminal things. Textures. Nuances. Angles. Tones of voice. Dust in the light.
I took this way back to Dallas with me. I dwell openly with things now. I just notice the trees blurring past my backseat window. I don’t go past noticing. I don’t construct meaning. I just absorb the trees.
My heart is still silent. I’m drawn in these last weeks to the academics of semiotics and neurotheology. That is the only intellectual path my journey has taken. I have no philosophy or theology about anything I experienced in the mountains. Yet I think I’m in the orbit of God’s very soul.
It’s very abstract. He likes it that way. He invited me to heal through a study in color. We will extract palettes from memories that won’t go away. We will use those colors to paint abstract canvases. These wordless, shapeless canvases may, in fact, be the most accurate expressions of memories right now.
It’s slow. We will do it together.