I believe in the holiness of emptiness: a table before the feast, chairs neatly tucked away, breeze blowing across a cold hearth. Once the banquet begins, you will find only bare bones marked with sharp teeth. Once the minstrels play and the courtiers whisper gossip and the plotters slip deadly vials into the wine, I can do nothing to save you. I believe in the sacred hollow of god's palm, where he holds nothing in store for you. I believe he's given everything he means to, and we must make do with that. Your complaints will be noted, of course. He has prepared a quiet place between heaven and hell for those who can't make do with the minimum, and won't seize what the world owes them. I believe in the pedestal where the statue of the goddess once stood. You can almost see the spot where her sandaled foot pressed against the stone, and if you listen closely, her song echoes in the dim recesses of this museum. We have made a monument of forgetting, and don't even recollect what we've lost. She, of course, is just as beautiful when no one thinks of her. I believe in the hungry belly, the devouring soul. I believe if we were meant to be full, we'd never have left Eden. And don't trust stories that tell you we were cast out. We left, chasing that growling, devouring need, which is everything that makes us human. Yes, emptiness is holiness: the craving that bites, the saving desperation. Sit down at the table, marvel at the way the light glints across bare porcelain, clean linen. Worship the divine intersection of hope and the perfect unborn moment. You will never feel as full as you do at this moment, waiting for the feast to begin.
November 30th, 2016