If you keep a journal it must be a beautiful bookyou return to as I was doing this morning having put chores aside for my daily entry whento my amazement my number two pencil caught fire that seared up my fingers, my arm to my elbowand onto my shoulder where strands of my hair – perfect tinder – ignited and I became flame, oh!I was a flare of irreducible beauty ablaze – what I truly longed for all my life was happening:a visitation, an ordination by fire, an anointing by the spirit leaving evidence in curls of smokerising like fragrance from a swung censer like embers flung as stars against darkness –but for a moment - it was enough for the moment and I returned to my journal, my pencil nowhereto be seen – but indelible tracks were left in the circadian place where I turn myself in as psalmicentries of praise and lament, sorrow and joy -none other than Lenten compunction, a recordof to whom I belong, nothing more nothing lessthan remembering this happened – as we rememberour beloved one’s words to the one who, in longingand love, returned to the tomb to tend to the body, Do not cling to me - words giving consent, awaiting translation: “Woman, you, too, are a reflection of God’s beautyembodied ordained to be who you must be and can bearising to be who you are.”By Margie Dimoplon
