Feather Bomb—A Thought for Our Experiences of the Tomb

Feather Bomb

© Hilary F. Marckx, all rights reserved

Two days ago,
and it’s happened before,
I walked out into my backyard
to see an explosion of feathers.
Lucky hawk,
Unlucky dove.

Hawks are hungry, doves satisfy that hunger
how things are meant to be,
that makes it no less easy for the dove.

But then,
how many times have we ended up fodder
for life itself?
We get the news…
We hear about…
The doctor says…
We see on the news…
And our lives explode
like the feathers of a
hawk-caught dove.

We go on, of course,
of course,
but nothing will ever again be the same,
and we,
stumbling on,
feel the talons on our too soft skin,
and somehow, we go on…

The question always is, How will we respond as life throws destruction into our existence?  Will we exhibit anger and rage at life’s betrayal?  How could this happen to me?  How dare whatever is at work out there let this happen? And then, of course, turn bitter and turn our despair into rage and lash out at the very people who love us and care for us and trust us to be loving.

Will we exhibit a trust in the possibility of grace?  Will we find some small promise of new joy within the sadness and anger?  Will we find some goodness in our lives even after it all comes down on us?  Can we, even in our dying, be persons filled to overflowing with grace and promise?

I have known people who have responded to tragedy in both of these ways.  Sometimes only one way.  Sometimes in both ways.  I think that the trick is to build enough love and hope and faith and grace into our lives so that when life comes up short, we have such a reservoir of them that we keep moving foreward in the love, grace, and hope.

Today, as we wait in the darkness of the Tomb, let us sit without fear, and allow hope to fill and feed us.  For just as surely as the sun shone on an empty grave on that long past morning we celebrate tomorrow, there is a promise made that there will be a morning for us and we also shall walk forth into a new dawn that awaits our dreams.


1 thought on “Feather Bomb—A Thought for Our Experiences of the Tomb

  1. At times, I have been the recipient of grace. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here– still alive, back in the Bay area. But I’m way too human to do it gracefully. At this moment, in my outer life I am at a place like the one we Christians are experiencing collectively today.

    Anxious, feeling lost. We followers of the Divine were led here to… what? Weren’t we promised joy and wonder and understanding? Yet what we have in front of us is darkness; the fear is nearly overwhelming and we cannot see any light.

    Hope, that cliched thing with feathers, is shredded. So much for peace, it’s been torn apart by nails much stronger than those little wings. The Tree of Life, having been first reduced to the timbers of crucifixion, is now nothing but a few remnants of dead pine needles.

    That black is also a cave, like the ones on icons of the nativity. Black is also the color of the sephirah of Binah on the Tree of Kabbalah– she is understanding, the feminine face of God. Related to those black madonnas of western Europe. Akin to the caves of Lascaux– places of initiation and rebirth. Depth and death.

    The only way out is in.

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