Sunday, October 2, 2011

Cathedrals in my heart

(Pre-Script: This post, once again, should be read as the song, "Every teardrop is a waterfall" plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

I was looking at a picture of a cathedral somewhere in France. It was intimidating to look at, tall and looming like a nightmare or a question I have yet to answer. It was built with careful attention to detail, which took a lot of time, skilled craftsmen, industrial equipment. Some people build these kinds of things naturally, or almost naturally, and they go to classes to learn the part that does not come naturally to them. They spend years perfecting the engineering science behind the craft.

But I am not the kind of girl who has any large stones or stained glass lying around, or power tools, or even any particular skills. I don't even own a hammer. I am the kind of girl who gets distracted by the glue drying on my hands from where I was building a Popsicle stick house, of the "design-as-I-go" variety. At some point, my fingers get too glue sticky to finish the project, so I am distracted peeling long layers of glue off of my hands; it now has my hand prints imprinted in it; if you didn't know it was glue, you might think I was peeling off my own leprosy. This is like an interesting form of such soothing therapy that I don't even notice that my Popsicle sticks have fallen over, into a sticky shapeless mess that you would never know I had spent any time focusing on arranging.

Things crumble around me.

I do not take it personally,

though maybe I should

pay a little more attention.

Instead, I peel skin glue,

but what I really want is the cathedral,

the answer to my own question,

and a choir inside, singing in perfect pitch so that anyone traveling past will stop and marvel at the echoes enlarging it's magnificence.
This year, maybe I'll ask for a hammer for Christmas. Maybe I'll ask for some plaster of Paris.

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