Of Easter: A Contemplation in three parts

Part 1: Good Friday


Calvary's Mournful Mountain

The first drop touches my tongue, spreading a fire from my belly out in branching waves. The flames spread to finger tips, to toes, transforming eyes from lamps to filters clouding the world in a soft haze, hiding dangers in the shadows where we can play hide & seek. My heartbeat calms. The raging river of my mind fades to a gentle stream trickling pleasant thoughts through my consciousness and making sense of dreams that no longer matter. Each sip adds to the lazy flow, drops swelling the stream where the tips of my toes splash playfully, up to my ankles, my knees. I laugh, looking back towards the shore. The people there laugh back, shouting playfully, “Further in! Further in!” I shriek with delight as my hips dip below. A touch of hands. Warm arms embrace. “This river is my lover!” I shout, as pearl rows glint gaily in the moonlight beneath my whetted lips. Would I? Could I? Without a second thought I dive below, my legs splashing behind as the surface seals me in. I shed my gills in my mother’s womb, and now I am trapped with no breath, splayed fingers beating at the flood. The river rages, torrents tearing limbs in all directions. I gasp as my head breaks above the surface. The shore consumed, my shouting friends distant flotsam on the current’s crests. My limbs flail wildly, panic in my chest. Blurred scenery once familiar, faces fade into focus, past and present one–a jumbled line of lost control. For hate, for love, for rage, for scorn–there rise a cacophony of voices, memories consuming understanding as the rapids cast me over cliffs into the mists below. I lay still. Then weeping comes. Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani! Asleep, in the damp burning of dreams. This seething breast never calmed.


Psalm 22