June 8: Surface of Mystery, Hidden God, Bacon

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery.  The surface of mystery is not smooth, any more than the planet is smooth; not even a single hydrogen atom is smooth, let alone a pine.  Nor does it fit together, not even the chlorophyll and hemoglobin molecules are a perfect match, for even after the atom of iron replaces the magnesium, long streamers of disparate atoms trail disjointedly from the rims of the molecules' loops.  Freedom cuts both ways.  Mystery itself is as fringed and intricate as the shape of the air in time.  Forays into mystery cut bays and fine fiords, but the forested mainland itself is implacable both in its bulk and in its most filigreed fringe of detail.  "Every religion that does not affirm that God is hidden," said Pascal flatly, "is not true."

God is hidden.  Dillard is talking about the complexities of the natural world, how, in the coupling of molecules and carving of lakes, the handiwork of the divine is concealed.  Most people simply don't take the time to slow down and notice.  That's what religion is all about:  finding those long moments in between ticks of the clock to unlock the mysteries of creation.

As I sit here, typing this post, it sounds like there's a murder of crows outside my window.  They're raising quite a ruckus.  Screaming and coughing like a bunch of tubercular asthmatics.  They are so loud that I can barely concentrate.  All I can hear is Aaawwww,  Caawwww,  Crawww,  Awwwww,  Awww, Awwwwww.

I'm not sure if I hear the voice of God in these crows.  The sound is not very pleasing.  Think of the most irritating, grating sound in the world (a Donald Trump campaign speech, for example).  That's what I'm hearing right now.  God is playing hide-and-seek with me pretty well.  All I really want to do is take a shotgun and blast those bastards into a little piles of feathers and bones.

I know that God can be found in everything.  Crows and clouds, cockroaches and comets.  Tonight, I ate a bowl of cheddar bacon fries from Wendy's.  I tasted God.  (Bacon always does that for me.)  Today, my son got a pair of shoes with wheels in the heels (I think they're called "heelys").  That's God for him; he's full of joy.  My daughter is playing her ukulele right now.  God again.

This weekend will be dedicated to my kids' dance recital.  Rehearsals and performances.  I love watching my kids do this thing they love.  Hours of hard work for five minutes of joy.  God again.  I'm reading a good book.  God.  I'm working on a new poem.  God.  Once you start looking really hard, like Dillard, God just keeps popping up, over and over and over.

Now, if Saint Marty can just get those goddam crows to shut the hell up . . .

Am I thinking too much again?