Augustine spent a good deal of his time in the writing of “Confessions” exploring the notion of time. He joked that before God got busy creating heaven and earth, he was “preparing hell for those who would pry into such profound mysteries.” Well, Time was on my mind today.
Glory to God in the highest heaven and Peace On earth,” sang a multitude of the heavenly hosts. On pitch, off pitch, could it have mattered? Noisy voices of God-only-knows-who-or-what cluttered the night sky and startled shepherd’s senses as surely as unexpected thunder rolling across Arizona’s sky. Heavenly hosts are not usually hanging around the night sky.
Six.
Six is the number of my late mother’s crystal wine goblets in my possession. That is, six was the number until this past Tuesday when I pulled them from their safe shelf and put them in a safe place
My California kitchen was warm, my relationship to my husband of twenty years, was not. My dearly loved grandmother, Martha Elizabeth, visiting from Arizona, stood beside me at the sink, helping me peel potatoes and carrots.
