Pin Prick

I just pricked my finger with a needle.  Unfortunately, it wasn't a sterile needle--it was a needle that had just been used to help take a cyst out of a lady.  Instead of getting the cap back on it right, I pricked myself.

The one thing you're not ever supposed to do; prick yourself with a used needle, and I did it.  Accidentally, while trying to help.  I fussed and obsessed and worried and everyone just laughed at me and the doc told me to put some hydrogen peroxide on it and put a finger glove on and let it sit.  So I did.  And now I am still obsessing and fussing, but it is what it is.  The people here don't have AIDS, thank goodness.

But what if they did?
It's times like these that make me remember my mortal self.  I am still in the stage in life where I think I am immortal--I can't fathom dying someday.  It just doesn't work in my head, doesn't make sense, doesn't click.    And I don't think it's really supposed to.  I don't think we're really supposed to understand death, because if we did, then it would mean we were supposed to die.  By not understanding it, by our brains not being able to fathom it, to have to grieve...this to me means our brains were not meant to have to deal with death.  We were not meant to die.  We were never supposed to know that there was such a thing as death.

Last Sabbath, just before Sabbath School was starting,  I went out to the lawn in front of the church to eat my breakfast orange. Pastor Marc was standing out there, his face was turned toward the sun, his hands in his pockets, his eyes closed.
"Enjoying the warmth?"  I asked
"Yes!" He smiled when he saw my orange.  "Can I have your orange peels?"
"Yes, and you can have some of the actual orange, too."  I smiled.
He took the peels and put them to his nose.
"I love to smell them.  They smell so...fresh."  He closed his eyes and buried his nose farther into the peels.
Ah, if only life were as simple as orange peels and the sun on your face!  
I think maybe that's what life is about, and Pastor Marc knows it.  The simple enjoyment of the day--knowing that it won't last, and trying to make the most of it.  It's so hard to do.  I don't know if anyone ever can do it consistently.  But it's worth a shot, I suppose, finding the beauty in everything, or something like that.

Even this late it happens

The coming of love, the coming of light

You wake up, and the candles are lit as if by themselves

Stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows

Sending up warm bouquets of air

Even this late,

The bones of the body shine

And tomorrows dust flares into breath.

--Mark Strand, "The Coming of Light"

Peek-a-Boo