The official tour of the Divinity School ends, and I wander across the street to the glory of the sprawling Duke gardens. I wander and wonder. I pace beneath a tree heavy with shocking yellow sharp against the crisp blue sky, almost as azure as the one in New Mexico. Chest tight, teeth grit.
And if peace can hurry, it came in like a rushing wind. Or maybe it snuck in like a breath; I’m not sure.
Four months later, the letter came. The tears, the heart set to burst with so much right.
Then I lost the letter. Then I lost track of time. Then I counted down and realized that there are only so many sunsets left in this wonk-town, the cushion of this little year dissolving before me. The thought of leaving home after home left me aches in the ten minutes of extra darkness that keeps me in bed that much longer; I refuse to stir until hope peeks through the blinds.
I told someone recently that a big part of me wants to be free of all these anchors. I’m realizing again, that this means I must be pushed out to sea.
1,200 miles away, I return often to that space beneath all that golden canopy, to walk the carpet gilt. I wait to find the wind, my heartbeat then–again. The calm of that certainty, the terror of it, too.
The single leaf arrests me, arrested, at the end of a branch.
How difficult it must be to be so much beauty only in order to fall, to fall only to make way for newness of life?
But perhaps, no matter what sky you’re under, this is the great glory:
to make room for Resurrection.
No matter how small.